:-fiM:;'^«^;y 



i '. 'IT 





mm A 





HEN said he unto me, 
Go thy way, 
Weigh me the 

weight of the fire, 
Or measure me the 

blast of the wind. 
Or call me again 

the day that is past. 

II Esdras IV: 5 




HIS Yellow Rose Edition of 

is limited to one thousand 

autograph copies 

published at 

Pasadena California 

on the 15th day of November 

in the year 1921. 

This copy is No. 

Signed by the author 

this 21th day ot November 1921. 



THE LONG AGO 

. by 

pWright 

Author of "The Clad World" 







Pasadena California 

THE VAN ALSTYNE COMPANY 

MCMXXI 



f^^S^^ 



^s^^'^ 
\^^\ 



Copyrighted 

1915, 1916, 1917, 1920, 1921 

ByJ W WRIGHT 



First Edition published November, 1916 
Second Edition published December, 1916 
Third Edition published September, 1919 
Fourth Edition published November, 1921 

DEC 10 1921 



r^ / 




CONTENTS 

; PAGE 

I The Garden 11 

II The River 19 

in Christmas 29 

IV My First Sweetheart 35 

V The Great Out Doors 45 

VI Grandmother 55 

VII Jimmy, The Lamplighter 61 

VIII The Ancient Omnibus 67 

IX Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese 75 

X Cobbler John 81 

XI The Little White Church 83 

Xn Grandfather Van Alstyne 93 

XIII The Rain 105 

XIV Aunt Em's Farm Ill 

XV Flies and Fly-traps 115 

XVI The Little Old Town 119 

XVII School Days 127 

XVIII Autumnal Activities 129 

XIX The County Fair 141 

XX Getting in the Wood 151 

XXI The Sugar Barrels 157 

XXII The Old Bell 161 

XXIII When Day is Done 173 

XXIV The Yellow Rose 177 




HE day is done ... yet 
we linger here at the win- 
dow of the private office, 
alone, in the early evening. 
Street sounds come surging 
up to us — the hoarse Voice 
of the City — a confused 
blur of noise — clanging trolley-cars, rumbling 
wagons, and familiar cries — all the varied com- 
motion of the home-going hour when the city's 
buildings are pouring forth their human tide 
of laborers into the clogged arteries. We lean 
against the window-frame, looking across and 
beyond the myriad roofs, and listening. The 
world-weariness has touched our temples with 
gray, and the heaviness of the day's concerns 
and tumult presses in, presses in, presses in. 
Yet as we look into the gentle twilight, the 
throbbing street below slowly changes to a 
winding country road; the tall buildings fade 
in the sunset glow until they become only huge 
elm-trees overtopping a dusty lane ; the trolley- 
gongs are softened and are but the distant 
tinkle of the homeward herd on the hills . . . 
and you and I in matchless freedom are once 
more trudging the Old Dear Road side by side, 
answering the call of the wondrous Voice of 
Childhood sounding through the years. 





The 
Garden 



IT was the spirit of the garden that crept 
into my boy-heart and left its fragrance, to 
endure through the years. What the garden 
stood for — what it expressed — left a mysterious 
but certain impress. Grandmother's touch hal- 
lowed it and made it a thing apart, and the rare 
soul of her seemed to be reflected in the Lilies 
of the Valley that bloomed sweetly year by year 
in the shady plot under her favorite window. 
Because the garden was her special province, 
it expressed her own sturdy, kindly nature. 

Little wonder, then, that we cherished it; 
that I loved to roam idly there feeling the en- 
foldment of that same protection and loving- 
kindness which drew me to the shelter of her 
gingham-aproned lap when the griefs of Boy- 
hood pressed too hard upon me; and that we; 
walked in it so contentedly in the cool of the 
evening, after the Four O'clocks had folded 
their purple petals for the night. 

11 



THE LONG AGO 

Grandmother^s garden, like all real gardens, 
wasn't just flowers and fragrance. 

There was a brick walk leading from the 
front gate to the sitting-room entrance — red 
brick, all moss-grown, and with the tiny weeds 
and grasses pushing up between the bricks. In 
the garden proper the paths were of earth, bor- 
dered and well-defined by inch-wide boards 
that provided jolly tight-rope practice until 
grandmother came anxiously out with her oft- 
repeated: "Willie, don't walk on those boards; 
you'll break them down." 

After the warm spring showers these earth- 
walks always held tiny mud-puddles where the 
rain-bleached worms congregated until the 
robins came that way. 

There's something distinctive and individual 
about the paths in a garden — ^they either **be- 
long," or they do not. Imagine cement walks 
in grandmother's garden! Its walks are as 
much to a garden as its flowers or its birds or 
its beetles, and express that dear, indescribable 
intimacy that makes the Phlox a friend and the 
Johnny- Jump-Up a play-fellow. 

12 



THE GARDEN 

High against the brick wall stood the fra- 
grant white Syringa bush — the tallest bloomer 
in the garden except the great Red Rose that 
climbed over the entire side of the house, tacked 
to it by strips of red flannel, and whose blos- 
soms were annually counted and reported to the 
weekly newspaper. 

A good place for angle-worms was under 
the Snowball bush, where the ground was cov- 
ered with white petals dropped from the count- 
lesS blossom-balls that made passers-by stop in 
admiration. 

Still another good digging-ground was in 
the Lilac corner where the purple and white 
bushes exhaled their incomparable perfume. 
Grandmother forbade digging in the flower- 
beds — it was all right to go into the vegetable 
garden, but the tender flower-roots must not be 
exposed to the sun by ruthless boy hands intent 
only on the quest of bait. 



Into the lapel of my dress coat She fastened 
a delicate orchid tonight. It must have cost a 
pretty penny, at this season — enough, no doubt, 
to buy the seeds that would reproduce a half- 



13 




"And shining clear and true . 
I see her who was the 
Spirit of the Garden. " 



THE GARDEN 

dozen of my grandmother's gardens. And as 
we moved away in the limousine She asked me 
why I was so silent. She could not know that 
when she slipped its rare stem into place upon 
my coat, the long years dropped away — and 1 
stood again where the Yellow Rose, all thorn- 
covered, lifted its sunny top above the picket 
fence — plucked its choicest blossom, put it al- 
most apologetically and ashamed into the but- 
tonhole of my jacket — stuffed my hands into 
my pockets and went whistling down the street, 
with the yellow rose-tint and the sunlight and 
the curls on my child head all shining in har- 
mony. The first boutonniere of my life — ^from 
the bush that became my confidant through all 
those wondrous years before they packed my 
trunk and sent me off to college. 

To be sure, I loved the bright-faced Pansies 
which smiled cheerily up at me from their round 
bed — and the dear old Pinks, of a strange fra- 
grance all their own— and the Sweet William, 
and even the grewsome Bleeding Heart that 
drooped so sad and forlorn in its alloted corner. 
Yet it is significant that Her costly hot-house 
bloom took me straight back over memory's 

15 



THE LONG AGO 

pathway to that simple yellow rose-bush by the 
fence. 



Tonight, with the forgotten orchid in my 
lapel, and all the weight of the great struggle 
lying heavy against my heart, I stand where 
the night-fog veils the scraggly eucalyptus, and 
the dense silence blots out all the noises that 
have intervened between the Then and the 
Now^and I can see again the gorgeous Peonies, 
pink and white, where they toss their shaggy 
heads, and gather as of old the flaming Cock's 
Comb by the little path. I hear the honey-bees 
droning in the Crab Apple tree by the back gate, 
and watch the robins crowding the branches of 
the Mountain Ash, where the bright red berries 
cluster. I see the terrible bumble-bee bear 
down the Poppy on its slender stem and go buz- 
zing threateningly away, all pollen-covered. 

And shining clear and true through the mist 
I see her who was the Spirit of the Garden. 
There she stands, on the broad step beside the 
bed where the Lilies of the Valley grew, leaning 
firmly upon her one crutch, looking out across 
her garden to each loved group of her flower- 

16 



THE GARDEN 

friends — smiling upon them as she did each day- 
through fifty years — turning at last into the 
house and taking with her, in her heart, the 
glory of the Hollyhocks against the brick wall, 
the perfume of the Narcissus in the border, the 
wing-song of the humming-bird among the 
Honeysuckle, and the warmth of the glad June 
sunshine. 



17 







"•%?- 



The River 

THE river wasn't a big river as I look back 
at it now, yet it was wide and wandering 
and deep, and flowed quietly along through a 
wonderful Middle West valley, dividing the 
Little Old Town geographically and socially. 
Its shores furnished such a boy playground as 
never was known anywhere else in all the world 
— for it was a gentle river, a kindly playfellow, 
an understanding friend; and it seemed to 
fairly thrill in responsive glee when I plunged, 
naked and untamed, beneath the eddying 
waters of the swimming-hole under the over- 
hanging wild-plum tree. 



19 



THE LONG AGO 

Its banks, curving in a semi-circle around 
the village, marked the borders of the whole 
wide world. There were other rivers, other vil- 
lages, other lands somewhere — all with strange, 
queer names — existing only in the geographies 
to worry little children. The real world, and 
all the really, truly folk and things, were along 
the far-stretching banks of this our river. 

Down by the flats, where a tiny creek wid- 
ened to a miniature swamp and emptied its 
placid waters into the main stream, the red- 
wing blackbirds sounded their strange cry 
among the cat-tails and the bull-rushes, and 
the frogs croaked in ceaseless and reverberant 
choms. There the catfish were ever hungry 
after dark, and the night was broken by the 
glare of torches along the little bridge or in a 
group of boats where fisher-lads kept close 
watch upon their corks. 

Far below The Dam, where the changeful 
current had left a wide sand-bar and a great 
tree-trunk stretched its fallen length across 
from the shore to the water's edge, the mud- 
turtles basked in the sunshine, and, at the ap- 
proach of Boyhood, glided or splashed to the 

20 



THE RIVER 
safety of the water. 

The banks of the river were a deep and 
silent jungle wherein all manner of wild beasts 
and birds were hunted ; its bosom was the vasty 
deep out upon which our cherished argosies 
were sent. And how often their prows were 
unexpectedly turned by some new current into 
mid-stream ; sometimes saved by an assortment 
of missies breathlessly thrown to the far side, 
to bring them, wave-washed, back to us ; some- 
times, alas, swept mercilessly out to depths 
where only the eye and childish grief could fol- 
low them over the big dam to certain wreckage 
in the whirlpools below, but even then not aban- 
doned until the shore had been patrolled for 
salvage as far as courage held out. 



Let's go back to the banks of our beloved 
river, you and I— and get up early in the morn- 
ing and run to the riffles near the old cooper- 
shop and catch a bucket of shiners and chubs, 
and then hurry on to Boomer's dam — or 'way 
upstream above the Island where we used to 
have the Sunday-school picnics — or maybe just 
stay at the in-town dam near the flour-mills and 



21 




"... It was a gentle 
river, a kindly playfellow, 
an understanding friend." 



THE RIVER 

the saw-mills where old Shoemaker John used 
to catch so many big ones— fat, yellow pike and 
broad black-bass. We will climb high up on 
the mist-soaked timbers of the mill-race and 
settle ourselves contentedly — with the spray 
moistening our faces and the warm sun brown- 
ing our hands— and the heavy pounding of fall- 
ing waters sounding in our ears so melodiously 
and so sweetly. Lazily, drowsily we'll hold a 
bamboo pole and guide our shiner through the 
foam-crowned eddies of the whirlpool, await- 
ing the flash of a golden side or a lusty tug at 
the line; or dreamily watch a long, narrow 
stream of shavings and sawdust, loosed from 
the opposite planing-mill, float away on the 
current. 

Here, in the dear dream-days, the conquer- 
ing of the world was a simple matter; for 
through the mist-prisms that rose from the 
foaming waters below the dam only rainbows 
could be seen— and there were Youth and the 
Springtime, and the new-born flowers and mat- 
ing birds, and The River 

And when the sun is low we'll wind our 
poles, at the end of a rare day— one that cannot 

23 



THE LONG AGO 

die with the sunset, but that will live so long as 
Memory is. Tonight we need not trudge over 
the fields toward home, in happy weariness, to 
Her who waited and watched for us at the win- 
dow, peering through the gathering dusk until 
the anxious heart was stilled by the sight of 
tired little legs dragging down the street past 
the postofFice. We'll stay here in the twilight, 
and watch the fire-flies light their fitful lamps, 
and the first stars blinking through the after- 
glow; and when the night drops down see the 
black bats careening weirdly across the moon. 
. . . And we'll stretch out again on the wild 
grass — soothed by the fragrance of the May- 
apple and the violets, and the touch of the 
night-wind. . . . How still it is . . . and 
The River doesn't seem to sound so loud when 
your head's on the ground — and your eyes are 
closed — and you're listening to the far, far, far- 
off lullaby of tumbling waters — and you're a bit 
tired, perhaps . . . a bit tired. . . . 



Somehow The River never terrified me. 

(It did mother, however!) 

Perhaps it brought no fear to me because it 



34 



THE RIVER 

flowed so gently and so helpfully through such 
a wonderful valley of peace and plenty. Even 
in its austere winter aspect, with its tree-banks 
bare of leaves and its snow-and-ice-bound set- 
ting, it rejoiced me. 

Teams of big horses and wagons and scores 
of men worked busily upon its frozen surface, 
sawing and cutting and packing ice in the big 
wooden houses along the banks. 

Always there was enough wind for an ice- 
boat or a skate-sail, or to send a fellow swiftly 
along when promises to mother were forgotten 
and an unbuttoned coat was held outstretched 
to catch the breeze. 

At night the torches and bonfires flickered 
and glowed where skaters sent the merry noises 
of their revelry afloat through the crisp air as 
they dodged steel-footed in and out among the 
huts of the winter fishermen. 

Perhaps I loved the winter river because I 
knew that beneath its forbidding surface there 
was the life of my loved lilies, and because I 
knew that all in good time the real river — our 
river — would be restored to us again, alive and 
joyous and unchanged. 

25 



THE LONG AGO 

One day, when first the tiny rivulets started 
to run from the bottom of the snow-drifts, The 
River suddenly unloosed its artillery and the 
crisp air re-echoed with the booming that pro- 
claimed the breaking-up of the ice. Great 
crowds of people thronged the banks, wonder- 
ing if the bridge would go out or would stand 
the strain of pounding ice-cakes. The unmis- 
takable note of a robin sounded from some- 
where. Great dark spots began to show in the 
white ice-ribbon that wound through the valley. 
The air at sundown had lost its sting. 

Day by day the breaking-up continued until 
at last the blessed stream was clear — the bass 
jumped hungry to the fly — the daffodils and the 
violets sprang from beneath their wet leaf- 
blankets — and all the world joined the birds in 
one glad song of emancipation and joy. 



Above the town, just beyond the red iron 
bridge, the river made a great bend and wid- 
ened into a lake where the banks were willow- 
grown, and reeds and rushes and grasses and 
lily-pads pushed far out into mid-stream, leav- 
ing only a narrow channel of clear water. 

26 



THE RIVER 

To the Big Bend our canoe glided often, 
paddling lazily along and going far up-stream 
to drift back with the current. 

Arms bared to the shoulder, we reached 
deep beneath the surface to bring up the long- 
stemmed water-lilies — the great 'white blos- 
soms, and the queer little yellow-and-black 
ones. 

Like a bright-eyed sprite the tiny marsh- 
wren flitted among the rushes, and the musk-rat 
built strange reed-castles at the water's edge. 

The lace-winged dragon-fly following our 
boat darted from side to side, or poised in air, 
or alighted on the dripping blade of our paddle 
when it rested for a moment across our knees. 

Among the grasses the wind-harps played 
weird melodies which only Boyhood could in- 
terpret. 

In this place The River sang its love-songs, 
and sent forth an answering note to the vast 
harmonious blending of blue sky and golden 
day and incense-heavy air and the glad songs 
of birds. 

And here at this tranquil bend The River 
seemed to be the self-same river of the old, 

27 



THE LONG AGO 

loved hymn we sang so often in the Little White 
Church on the Cornei^ — that river v^hich ''flows 
by the throne of God" ; fulfilling the promise of 
the ancient prophet of prophets and bringing 
''peace . . . like a river, and glory . . . 
like a flowing stream." 



28 



s 


^^ 



Christmas 

WE always used grandmother's stocking— 
because it was the biggest one in the 
family, much larger than mother's, and some- 
how it seemed able to stretch more than hers. 
There was so much room in the foot, too — a 
chance for all sorts of packages. 

There was a carpet-covered couch against 
the flowered wall in one corner of the parlor. 
Between the foot of it and the chimney, was 
the door into our bedroom. I always hung my 
stocking at the side of the door nearest the 
couch, on the theory, well-defined in my mind 
with each recurring Christmas, that if by any 
chance Santa Claus brought me more than he 
could get into the stocking, he could pile the 
overflow on the couch. And he always did ! 

It may seem strange that a lad who seldom 
heard even the third getting-up call in the mom- 



29 



THE LONG AGO 

ing should have awakened without any calling 
once a year — or that his red-night-gowned 
figure should have leaped from the depths of 
his feather bed — or that he should have crept 
breathless and fearful to the door where the 
stocking hung. Notwithstanding the ripe ex- 
perience of years past, when each Christmas 
found the generous stocking stuffed with good 
things, there was always the chance that Santa 
Glaus might have forgotten, this year — or that 
he might have miscalculated his supply and not 
have enough to go 'round — or that he had not 
been correctly informed as to just what you 
wanted — or that some accident might have be- 
fallen his reindeer-and-sleigh to detain him un- 
til the grey dawn of Christmas morning stopped 
his work and sent him scurrying back to his toy 
kingdom to await another Yule-tide. 

And so, in the fearful silence and darkness 
of that early hour, with stilled breath and heart 
beating so loudly you thought it would awaken 
everyone in the house, you softly opened the 
door — poked your arm through — felt around 
where the stocking ought to be, but with a great 
sinking in your heart when you didn't find it the 

30 



CHRISTMAS 

first time — and finally your chubby fist clutched 
the misshapen, lumpy, bulging fabric that pro- 
claimed a generous Santa Claus. 

Yes, it was there ! 

That was enough for the moment. A hur- 
ried climb back into the warm bed — and then 
interminable years of waiting until your attuned 
ear caught the first sounds of grandmother's 
dressing in her nearby bedroom, and the first 
gleam of winter daylight permitted you to see 
the wondrous stocking and the array of pack- 
ages on the sofa. It was beyond human strength 
to refrain from just one look. But alas! The 
sight of a dapple-grey rocking-horse with silken 
mane and flowing tail was too much, and the 
next moment you were in the room with your 
arms around his arched neck, while peals of 
unrestrained joy brought the whole family to 
the scene. Then it was that mother gathered 
you into her lap, and wrapped her skirt about 
your bare legs, and held your trembling form 
tight in her arms until you promised to get 
dressed if they would open just one package — 
the big one on the end of the sofa. After that 
there was always "just one more, mother, 

31 



THE LONG AGO 

please !" and by that time the base burner was 
warming up and you were on the floor in the 
middle of the discarded wrapping-paper, un- 
covering each wondrous package down to the 
very last — the very, very last — in the very toe 
of the stocking^ — the big round one that you 
were sure was a real league ball but which 
proved to be nothing but an orange ! 



There is a new high-power motor in my 
garage. It came to me yesterday*^ — Christmas. 
It is very beautiful, and it cost a great deal of 
money, a very great deal. If we were in the 
Little Old Town it would take us all out to Aunt 
Em's farm in ten minutes. (It always took her 
an hour to drive in with the old spotted white 
mare.) 

I am quite happy to have this wonderful 
new horse of today, and there is some warmth 
inside of me as I walk around it in the garage 
while Henry, its keeper, flicks with his chamois 
every last vestige of dust from its shiny sides. 

And yet . . . how gladly would I give it 
up if only I could have been in my feather bed 
last night — if I could have awakened at day- 

32 



CHRISTMAS 

break and crept softly, red-flanneled and bare- 
footed, to the parlor door — if I could have 
groped for grandmother's stocking and felt its 
lumpy shape respond to my eager touch — and 
if I could have known the thrill of that dapple- 
grey rocking-horse when I flung my arms around 
its neck and buried my face in its silken mane ! 



33 




*v.,« * 



^ My First 
Sweetheart 



You think she was a bit of a girl about my 
own age all dressed in pretty white things 
and pink stockings and a great big bow of rib- 
bon in her hair; and that I hung around her 
front gate, walked to school with her, brought 
her handsfull of hastily-snatched but conse- 
crated blossoms, shared my apple with her, and 
all that sort of conventional and childish pro- 
cedure. Not at all. 

To be sure, there were certain children, pos- 
sibly a child, who seemed more worthy than 
others of my special consideration— but my 
attitude toward them, or her, never reached 
adoration and true love. It was well enough 
to meet them, or her, at candy-pulls, and go so 
far as to play clap-in-and-clap-out, or drop-the- 
pillow, or postoffice. One might even abandon 
his fellows to their rough Hallowe'en pranks 
or suffer himself to stay indoors and make taffy 
or bob apples or otherwise devote himself to 
the entertainment of them, or her, out of re- 

85 



THE LONG AGO 

spect to the wishes, or possibly the express com- 
mands, of scheming parents. Hayrides, too, 
were more or less endurable occasionally — 
when the holding of hands was a measure of 
safety and only such protection as any gentle- 
man would expect to offer a lady. Such affairs 
of the heart, as our elders misnamed them when 
judging things by externals and wholly un- 
aware of one's inner feelings, were well enough 
in their way and only a phase of life to be met 
and endured and recovered from, like the 
measles or chicken-pox, or mumps. 

But a man's love was not a thing to be frit- 
tered away upon children, no matter how white 
and pink and lovely they might be. It is only 
given a man to love once in his lifetime, and 
when that supreme passion occurs prematurely, 
say at eight years of age or thereabouts, it must 
be worthily bestowed, as becomes a man. 

By what strange whim of Nature manhood 
had been thrust upon me at so tender an age, 
I did not know and did not stop to enquire. I 
only regarded it as very fortunate for me that 
maturity and capacity for the grand passion 
had been bestowed upon me at the same mo- 

86 



MY FIRST SWEETHEART 

ment that She came into my life. I knew that 
it was She the moment we met — love at first 
sight, indeed, and instantaneous capitulation. 

It was not her transcendent personal beauty 
that made me love her — although I took great 
pride in that, as one might of a handsome and 
creditable possession. I adored her wonderful 
hair, her eyes, her smiling lips, her every fea- 
ture — and worshipped and haunted the ground 
she walked on. It was her sweet presence, the 
unspeakable joy of her companionship, and the 
certainty that she reciprocated my love, that 
bound me to her inextricably. 

There were blissful walks hand-in-hand be- 
side the close-trimmed evergreen hedges that 
bordered the brick walks in Auntie Moak's big 
yard — the hedges where the song-sparrow 
nested, where a man not yet very tall could, by 
standing on tiptoe and steadied by Her arm, 
look down into a nest and see its tiny eggs or 
its wide-mouthed, worm-expecting fledglings. 
There were heaven-filled hours in the hammock 
under the shade of the group of pine-trees in 
the comer — hours of story-telling and reading, 
and of a manly head resting so contentedly on 

37 



THE LONG AGO 

a womanly shoulder. There were early-evening 
sittings in Her lap, and precious cuddling into 
Her arms, and the warmth of Her cheek against 
one's hair, until one sighed and slipped gently 
off into Slumberland and was put to bed upon 
the couch until The Folks were ready to go 
home. 

One day they twitted me, in her presence, 
about my devotion — and for the first time in 
my life I tasted the bitter cup of Apprehension. 

"I'm going to marry Aunt Eliza," I an- 
nounced. (She wasn't a really-truly aunt, but 
that's what they let me call her. And it had a 
ring of possession.) 

"Why, you can't do that, Willie," they said. 
"She's too old for you. Aunt Eliza's twenty, 
you're only eight. You'll never catch up to 
her." 

Then and there she all unknowingly wrecked 
my life. 

"But I'll wait for you, Willie," she said. 

That settled it. I rushed to her arms — those 
blessed arms that were to be forever my refuge. 
In a few years, at most, I would be a big man — 
big enough to claim my promised bride. 

38 



MY FIRST SWEETHEART 

Then followed days and days of unstinted 
and unalloyed bliss. She would wait for me! 
The wedding was only a matter of a short time 
— she "had her growth" and I was springing 
up rapidly — and soon I would catch up to her 
— and she would wait for me. 

With what stoicism I tolerated and suffered 
myself to go to "parties" thereafter! Candy- 
pulls and such palled on me. Hallowe'en was 
for a man's deeds only — no more apple-bobbing 
with the girls in the house. "Postoffice" and 
"drop-the-pillow" were frequently forced upon 
me, and I went through such ordeals with more 
or less patience and some show of enjoyment — 
but my heart had been given elsewhere and for- 
ever, and what were all these pink-and-white, 
ruffled-and-ribboned children to me now 

One afternoon after school, when I went to 
see her, I found another man there. For a 
moment it was unbelievable. He was a hand- 
some fellow, pretty well grown as I could see 
when I measured him with my eye, and appar- 
ently a decent sort of a chap as appeared when 
we were introduced. At first I was undecided 
whether to shake hands with him or lick him 



39 



THE LONG AGO 

then and there and have the thing done with. 
A second glance reassured me — and I decided 
to shake hands. For after all, it might not mean 
anything, Ms being there. We had a somewhat 
strained but fairly good time together, the three 
of us, and I rather liked the fellow, still feeling 
secure of my own status. 

I met this same man at Aunt Eliza's quite 
frequently thereafter — more often than I 
thought it necessary or proper for him to be 
calling on an engaged woman, especially one 
engaged to me. If I had not had very much 
the start of him in the matter of time, I should 
have regarded him as a dangerous rival, but 
she had promised to wait for me — and I very 
well knew she loved me — so what had I to fear, 
no matter how big-and-good-looking he was? 
One thing I did not like at all — he came from 
another town. Women are so queer — they 
hang a halo about a uniform, for instance, or 
just dote on a chap who is a bit wild, or become 
hypnotized by The Man From Another Town. 
But even this did not perturb me — and as the 
weeks passed and She was still the same toward 
me, all distrust vanished and I settled back into 
wedding-day planning. 

40 



MY FIRST SWEETHEART 

Not many months afterward She gathered 
me up into her lap one day and began to talk 
to me very earnestly about the Other Man. Sht 
explained that she had waited several years for 
me, but I wasn't yet ready to take her, and she 
was afraid she'd be an old maid before I could 
catch up to her> — whereas the Other Man was 
all ready right then, and while he wasn't me 
he was a pretty good sort and perhaps she'd 
better take him while she had the chance and 
make the best of it. She explained it beauti- 
fully — I could not have asked to be more beau- 
tifully exterminated. It was perfect and com- 
plete. It was my first experience of a broken 
heart and a blasted faith at one and the same 
time. 

When She started to take down for me the 
bound volumes of Harper's Weekly that I usual- 
ly devoured by the hour stretched flat on my 
tummy on the library floor, I told her I guessed 
I wouldn't stay any longer today. I permitted 
myself to be kissed, as usual, at the front door, 
and I twined my arms around her neck in the 
old dear way. But as I trotted down the brick 
walk toward the gate, beside the close-trimmed 

41 



THE LONG AGO 

evergreen hedge, for the first time in my life I 
did not peep between its fragrant branches to 
find where the song-sparrow nested. When I 
reached the gate, and heard the creak of its 
hinges, and the click of its latch as it swung 
shut behind me, there was no familiar whistle 
on my lips as I marched sturdily homeward — 
still wondering what it meant to say you'd "wait 
for a fellow." 

By the time I reached the city park I had 
found some measure of comfort in remember- 
ing that She had promised to give me an im- 
portant place at the wedding — ring-bearer, or 
something equally grand. 

So I hunted for a chippie's nest in a little 
fir-tree — and found one all filled with white 
eggs spotted with brown on the big end. . . . 
Upon reaching home I was able to eat a little 
supper. 



Life holds sweethearts many. I have loved 
much — and numerously; and have been sim- 
ilarly favored. Necessarily, too, life holds bitter 
moments — and I have not escaped them. 



42 



MY FIRST SWEETHEART 

But there is no love like the love of eight 
for twenty. 

And there is no bitterness like that of the 
moment when you discover that She cannot 
wait for you, and you see her borne away from 
you by the Man From Another Town. 



43 




The Great Out Doors 



You remember, early Saturday morning, 
you were standing at the cookie-jar. The 
kitchen was filled with the fragrance of new- 
cooked cakes. Your mouth was filled with 
cookies still warm and soft. Just as your hand 
was reaching for another, a whistle sounded 
outside. Your hand stopped — you turned — 
then quickly plunged into the jar again and in 
an instant you were scurrying across the yard 
stufl[ing the last of one cookie into your mouth 
and two others into your pocket. You grabbed 
the old bamboo fish-pole from its pegs on the 
side of the barn and the can of worms under- 
neath the sidewalk, ran almost breathless 
through the gate to catch up with Jimmie Jones 
who was waving an imperative "C'mon, hurry 
up, can't chu!" half-a-block down the street. 
You both ran as fast as your little legs would 



46 



THE LONG AGO 

take you until breath gave out or you reached 
the last house on the street and saw before you 
only the wide fields and the big road and the 
deep woods and the shining river sparkling in 
the sunlight where the riffles sang their joyous 
melody of freedom and the Great Out Doors. 

All day long, until the sun sinking low in 
the west bade you turn reluctant feet home- 
ward, you played v^^ith your countless loved 
comrades in the Big Garden — one with them, 
one of them. You dived with the belted king- 
fisher into the depths of a shady pool, and swam 
underwater with its fearless minnows and chubs 
whose sudden touch you often felt upon your 
legs. You climbed with the squirrels into the 
tops of the hickory-trees, play-mates all in the 
wildwood. You ran with the cottontails through 
the perfumed fields where the butterflies stag- 
gered in the wind. You stretched on your back 
in the tall grass, and between its waving tops 
watched the white clouds float across the blue 
sky and a huge hawk sailing and dipping and 
mounting on motionless wing. You whistled a 
low, clear note, and heard the answer from a 
bird-throat in the thicket. You discovered the 



46 



THE GREAT OUT DOORS 

hiding-place of the modest yellow violet, and 
stretched on your tummy on the mossy bank 
beside the brook and buried your face in the 
fragrance of the purple violet bed, lazily swing- 
ing your heels in the air while the stream-voice 
crooned its matchless lullaby and the wood- 
thrush sang to its mate on the nest. 

Here, in our Great Garden that has no walls, 
are Voices that we know, telling stories that we 
love in language we both speak and understand 
— but there is no voice in a round, flat cake of 
flour, be it ever so nicely browned, be it ever so 
soft and crumbly, be it ever so thickly sugared. 

So if someone will only whistle, and start 
again the call of the loved voices in the big Out 
There, how gladly and how quickly we will 
leave our voiceless cookie-jar, and go ! 



You remember, too, the day it rained so 
hard mother let you stay home from school and 
your little neighbor came over and you had the 
wonderful attic all to yourselves. The dark 
places were an almost impenetrable jungle 
which you more-or-less boldly explored, shoot- 

47 



THE LONG AGO 

ing down huge elephants with wooden guns of 
your own make and trapping fierce tigers in pits 
of your own imaginings. 

So intent were you in stalking a particularly 
large beast you had not noticed that the rain 
had stopped. Suddenly, just as you were aim- 
ing straight between the eyes of the onrushing 
monster which would certainly crush you life- 
less beneath his enormous feet if your aim 
failed, the note of a bluebird rang through the 
attic, the trill of a robin sounded unmistakably, 
and a glint of sunshine lightened the gloom. 
The gun fell from your hands and clattered to 
the floor, the approaching beast dissolved into 
thin air, and with it vanished the Land of Make 
Believe, in the presence of a dripping but glad 
Reality. 

You tumbled noisily downstairs and out into 
the cool air, in time to hear the last tinkling 
music of roof-waters draining into tin down- 
spouts and dropping with hollow resonance 
into the rain-barrel. You watched the purple 
martins come one by one from beneath their 
sheltering eaves and soar away into the misty 
air to join the circling chimney-swifts and dart- 

48 



THE GREAT OUT DOORS 

ing barn-swallows in the mazes of a joyous air 
dance. You smelled the pungent and peculiar 
fragrance of the big Lombardy poplars, and the 
perfume exhaled from the white syringa bush 
in the garden. And even while the rain-mist 
still moistened your face you saw the clouds 
breaking and disappearing, and the great rain- 
bow arched to proclaim fair weather, one end 
unquestionably resting no farther away than 
the vegetable garden just behind the barn. 

In the murky waters of the gutter, running 
bank-full, you sailed your single-masted argo- 
sies hastily built from a shingle pointed at the 
thin end as best one could with a dull and 
broken-blade knife and limited time in which 
to catch the full flood in the street. 

You hurried to the big dam just below town 
to see your little river, swollen and muddy, send 
its mighty waters over the edge and into the 
foam-crowned depths below, until the very 
ground beneath your feet shook and trembled 
and quivered. 

Then you bounded on into the Great Out 
Doors, heedless of the grass that emptied its 
water-filled blades into your shoes; heedless, 

49 



THE LONG AGO 

too, of the branch that brushed your cheek with 
its wet hand ; heedless of everything except that 
the 'songs from countless bird-comrades joining 
in one glad and mighty chorus called you out, 
out, out from the sham jungle of Make Believe 
into the laughing, sun-filled field of Life. 

And so, sitting here tonight in our prison- 
loge seeking on the Make Believe stage a 
moment's forgetfulness of our own Make Be- 
lieve living, we would gladly exchange the 
perfume of milady's roses for one after-rain 
breath of Lombardy poplars ; and all our mighty 
argosies we send forth so anxiously upon the 
turbulent sea of the world's trade we would 
give for a shingle boat, with its stick mast, bob- 
bing merrily over the gutter-flood in the street. 



The Christmas-morning rocking-horse has 
been ridden fast and far. The pages of the 
picture-books have been turned foi-wards and 
backwards, and pushed aside. The shiny en- 
gine and train of cars have steamed over the 
floor in their little circle and lie wrecked and 
deserted upon the carpet-roses. 

60 



THE GREAT OUT DOORS 

The base-burner glows red, and the room is 
close and stuffy. You press your nose for a 
moment against the cold window-pane and look 
out upon a snow-white world. From Some- 
where and Nowhere comes a call — silent, clar- 
ion, imperative, compelling. Life is stirring, 
and you thrill responsive; the world of real 
things summons, and you answer. 

You hurry into cap, mittens and knitted 
leggins that pull on over your shoes — and 
plunge shouting through the snow-drift at the 
door. You mould a snow-ball and hurl it with 
all your might and main, anywhere, at anything, 
or at nothing in particular. You scuffle a path 
through the snow upon the sidewalk, past the 
kitchen and the meat-house and the barn, the 
first hardy pioneer to break a trail across that 
trackless waste. You make zigzags and cun^es 
over the white lawn. You watch the fluffy snow- 
birds crowd about the kitchen door to wait for 
crumbs that grandma never fails to provide 
when the snow lies deep. You gather handsfull 
of glistening snow-diamonds and toss them into 
the air, to have them blown back into your face. 

You make a stout snow-man — a fierce bandit 



51 



THE LONG AGO 

to be attacked with long, sharp icicles carefully 
broken from the house-eaves. 

And when the dusk comes creeping over the 
tree-tops and a woman's voice calls your name 
from the doorway, you send a last icicle lance 
into the vanquished snow-bandit, hurl a last 
snow-ball at his already-disfigured head, make 
one final scampering circle of the lawn kicking 
the snow in little clouds before your sturdy legs 
» — and bound regretfully into the vestibule just 
as mother comes with a broom to brush you off. 



Brother of mine, man of the great, strange 
world, shall we leave our costly cookie-jar of 
Today — give up our feverish life of Make Be- 
lieve — abandon our useless heaped-up treasure 
that keeps us in a close and stuffy prison — and 
listen again to the old loved Voices calling to 
us as they called in the long ago from our won- 
derful garden in the Great Out Doors. Perhaps 
we shall find that Something which lived within 
us then, and by its alchemy dissolve the years 
until we live again. 

Time's furrows in the face are but the writ- 
ing which tells that we have strayed and have 
clung too closely to life's cookie-jars and make- 

52 



THE GREAT OUT DOORS 

believe jungles and dapple-grey rocking-horses. 
Let the writing stand — each furrow a deep 
badge of courage — but let us go back, in our 
hearts, to plunge with the belted kingfisher into 
the minnow's pool; to lie on our back in the 
violet-beds and watch the white clouds sail 
across a blue sky ; to hear the song of the mating 
wood-thrush ; to watch the martins and chimney- 
swifts and barn-swallows circling in the mazes 
of their lofty minuet; to sail our shingle boats 
upon the tumbling gutter stream ; and to toss a 
shower of snow diamonds into the air and feel 
them blown back into our face. 

So shall we find that Youth and Age are one 
and the same, and both dwell in the heart of 
man, and both are Life. But only the heart can 
know it, and only the heart can make it so ; for 
only the heart can love a shingle argosy above 
a gilded prow. 

Cookie-jars and make-believe jungles and 
dapple-grey rocking-horses ever dwell in close 
and stuffy rooms where Time chisels deep fur- 
rows in men's faces ; but there are none such in 
the heart that throbs responsive to the bird-song 
and the simple boat on a rainy tide and all the 
loved Voices that call in our Great Out Doors. 

53 




Grandmother 

Do you remember the day she lost her 
glasses? My, such a commotion ! Every- 
body turned in to hunt for them. Grandmother 
tramped from one end of the house to the other 
— we all searched — upstairs and down — with 
no success. 

They weren't in the big Bible (we turned 
the leaves carefully many times — it was the 
most likely place). They weren't in either of 
her sewing baskets, nor in the cook-book in the 
kitchen. Grandfather said she could use one 
pair of his gold-bowed ones — but shucks ! She 
couldn't see with anything except those old 
steel-bowed specs! 

And then, when she finally sat down and 
said for the fiftieth time: "I wonder where 
those specs are!" . . . and put the corner of 



66 



THE LONG AGO 

her apron to her eyes — I happened to look up, 
and there they were — on the top of her head! 
Been there all the time. . . . And she enjoyed 
the joke as much as we did — a joke that went 
around the little town and followed her through 
all the years within my memory of her. 

Sometimes (as often as expedient), you 
asked her for a penny — never more, and then : 

"Now, Willie, what do you want with a pen- 
ny? I haven't got it. Run along now." 

"Aw, Gran'ma, don't make a feller tell what 
he's goin' to buy. I know you got one — look'n 
seel Please, Gran'ma!" 

Slowly the wrinkled hand would fumble for 
that skirt-pocket which was always so hard to 
locate — and from its depths there would come 
the old worn leather wallet with a strap around 
it — and slowly, (gee! how s-1-o-w-l-y), — after 
much fumbling, during which you were never 
sure whether you were going to get it or not 
. . . the penny would come forth and be 
placed (with seeming reluctance) in the grimy, 
dirty boy-hand. And usually, just as you 
reached the door on your hurried way to the 

66 



GRANDMOTHER 

nearest candy-shop, she would scare you almost 
stiff by calling you back, and say: 

"Wait a minute, Willie, I found another one 
that I didn't know was in here!" 

And then you kissed her wrinkled, soft 
cheek and ran away thinking, after all, grand- 
mother was pretty good. 

Good? 

Can a woman stick to a man through sixty- 
odd years — and keep his linen and his broad- 
cloth — and bear him children^ — and make them 
into fine wives and husbands — and take them 
back to her bosom when their mates turn against 
them — and raise a bunch of riotous grandchil- 
dren — and manage such a household as ours 
with never a complaint — get up at five o'clock 
every morning and sit up till half-after nine 
o'clock every night — busy all the time — and 
nurse her own and other folks' ailments without 
a murmur — and submerge self completely in 
her constant doing for others — can a frail 
woman so live for eighty-six years and be any- 
thing less than good. 

And then, at the end of the long journey she 
was still trudging patiently and gladly along, 

57 



THE LONG AGO 

side by side with Grandfather — making less 
fuss over the years-old pain in her knees than 
we make now over a splinter in a finger — going 
daily and uncomplainingly about her manifold 
duties. 

And at night, about an hour before bedtime, 
she would sit down in the black-upholstered 
rocker almost behind the big base burner — her 
first quiet moment in all the long day — head 
resting against the chair's high back — and doze 
and listen to the fitful conversation in the room, 
or to someone reading — giving everything, de- 
manding nothing — as had been her wont all the 
long years. 

And Christmas eve . . . (I'll have to go 
a bit slow now) ... On Christmas eve, you 
remember, when out-of-doors the big snow- 
flakes were slowly and softly fluttering down, 
grandmother would get the huge Bible and her 
treasure-box and bring them up to the little 
round table covered with its red cloth . . . 
And you'd get a chair and come up close ('cause 
you knew what was happening) . . . Then 
she would read you a wonderful story out of 
the Bible about the love of God so great that 

58 



GRANDMOTHER 

He sent His only-begotten Son to be a Light 
unto the World . . . and then she'd go down 
into that little old card-board treasure-box and 
find some Christmas carols printed in beautiful 
colors on lace-edged cards folded up just like a 
fan. She would look down at you over the top 
of her specs and tell you how the street min- 
strels in England used to stand out in the snow 
and sing, and be brought into the house and 
given the fresh-brewed beer and ale, and a bite 
to eat — going from house to house all through 
the early night. 

And then she would close her eyes and begin 
to sing the dear old carols . . . with the 
tremble in her voice . . . and tapping on 
the table with her finger-ends in rhythm . . . 
and Memory's tears dropping on the wrinkled 
cheeks . . . and the tremulous voice, still 
soft and sweet, chanting : 

"God rest you, merrie gentlemen! 
Let nothing you dismay; 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, 
Was born on Christmas Day!'* 



Aye and amen, dear soul' God rest you- 
and He does! 



69 





Jimmy 
the Lamplighter 



THE sun had gone down behind the willows 
on the river-bank. The night-clouds still 
carried the crimson-and-purple of the late twi- 
light; and the deep, still waters of the channel 
gave back the colors and the gleam of the first 
stars that heralded the night . . . The mar- 
tins chattered under the eaves, scolding some 
belated member of the clan who pushed noisily 
for a lodging-place for the night. The black 
bat and, the darting nighthawk were a-wing, 
grim spectres of the dusk. The whip-poor-will 
was crying along the river, and far up-stream 
the loon called weirdly across the water. . . . 

A small boy was sitting on grandfather's 
front steps, his elbows on his knees, his chin in 
his palms, seeing familiar objects disappear in 
the gathering dusk, and watching the stars come 
out. He was safe, very safe — for grandfather 
had not gone to the dining-room yet, and his 
arms could be reached for shelter in two or 
three bounds, if need be. So it was very pleas- 

61 



THE LONG AGO 

ant to sit on the steps and see the little old town 
fold-up its affairs and settle down for the night. 

And more particularly to watch for Jimmy, 
the Lamplighter. 

Far up the street, in the almost-dark place, 
about where Cobbler John's shoestore ought to 
be, a point of light flashed suddenly, flickered, 
and then burned steadily — and in a moment 
another, across the street . . . Then a space 
of black, and two more points appeared. Down 
the street they came in pairs, closely following 
the retreating day. 

And the Little Boy on the Steps knew that 
it was Jimmy, the Lamplighter, working his 
way swiftly and silently. If only the dinner- 
bell would delay awhile The Boy would see old 
Jimmy light the lamp on grandfather's corner, 
as he had seen him countless times before. 

Then, just as the red glow faded in the West 
and Night settled down, he came swinging 
sturdily across the street, his ladder hung on 
his right shoulder. Quickly, unerringly he 
placed the ladder against the iron post that sent 
its tnetalic ring into the clear night air as the 
ladder struck, and was three rounds up almost 

62 



JIMMY, THE LAMPLIGHTER 

before it settled into position. Then a quick 
opening of the glass; a struggle with the 
matches in the wind, a hurried closing of the 
door, one quick look upward; an arm through 
the ladder and a swing to the shoulder — and 
Jimmy the Lamplighter was busily off to his 
next corner. 

Once, in the later years, he came with his 
new lighter — a splendid brass affair, with 
smooth wood handle, holding a wax taper that 
flickered fitfully down the street and marked 
old Jimmy's pathway through the dusk. Al- 
though he could reach up and turn on the gas 
with the key-slot at the end of the scepter and 
light it with the taper, all at one time, he ever 
carried the ladder — for none could tell when 
or where a burner might need fixing, or there 
would be other need to climb the post as in the 
days of the lamp and sulphur-match. 

Short of stature, firm of build, was old 
Jimmy. The night storms of innumerable 
years had bronzed his skin and furrowed his 
face. Innumerable years, yes — for so faithful 
a servant as old Jimmy the Lamplighter was 
not to be cast away by every caprice of the 

63 , 



THE LONG AGO 

public mind which changed the political aspect 
of the town council. So Jimmy stayed on 
through the years and changing administrations 
— in the sultry heat of the summer nights, or 
breasting his way through winter's huge snow- 
drifts, fronting the wind-driven sleet, or drip- 
ping through the spring-time rain, his taper 
hugged tight beneath his thick rubber coat, his 
matches safe in the depths of an inside pocket. 

And tonight, as the Boy still watches, in 
memory, old Jimmy on his rounds, they are a 
bit odd, these queer old street lamps that just 
seem to belong to the night, after the garish 
blaze of electric signs and the great arc-lights 
in the shop windows. Yet it shines through the 
years, this simple lamp of the Long Ago, as it 
shone through the night of old — a friendly 
beacon only, the modest servant of an humble 
race. 

Jimmy's boy Ted, who carried his father's 
ladder and taper when the good old man laid 
them down, now nods in his chimney-comer 
o'nights. But his boy, old Jimmy's grandson, 
is still a lamplighter — still illuminating the 

64 



JIMMY, THE LAMPLIGHTER 

streets of his town, still turning on its lamps 
when the loon calls weirdly across the river in 
the gathering dusk. 

He bears no ladder nor fitful taper— he 
dreads no sultry summer heat— he breasts no 
snowdrifts— he battles against no wind-driven 
sleet and rain. 

There he sits, inside yonder great brick 
building, his chair tipped back against the wall, 
reading the evening paper while the giant 
wheels of the dynamo purr softly and steadily. 
He lowers his paper— looks at the clock— then 
out into the early twilight . . . then slowly 
turns to the wall, pushes a bit of a button, takes 
up his paper again, and goes on with his read- 
ing—while a thousand lights burn white 
through the city ! . . . 

Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy! the world is all awry, 
man ! Your son's son lights his thousand lamps 
in a flash that's no more than the puff of wind 
that used to blow your match out when you 
stood on your ladder and lighted one ! 



65 




The Ancient Omnibus 

THE odor of it is as pungent in my nostrils, 
as unique and as unforgettable as the en- 
during smell of the circus. The peculiar fra- 
grance of the omnibus was like the old 'bus 
itself — individual, wholly unlike anything else, 
indescribable, unmistakable, incisive. 

After you had been away from the Little 
Old Town for awhile, and had come back, the 
old railroad station with its familiar group of 
idlers did not specially thrill you as you stepped 
from the train; neither did the sight of the town 
buildings in the distance. But the moment you 
climbed into the rear of Barney's old 'bus, felt 
it sway as he swung himself up to the high seat 

67 



THE LONG AGO 

and the impatient horses started off almost be- 
fore he had landed, and felt the jar as he pulled 
the leather strap that closed the door with a 
bang — and smelled the ancient perfume of that 
musty old vehicle, you felt at home! Perhaps 
it was really the sense of being so near home 
and hurrying nearer that made you feel at 
home ; perhaps it was the familiar figure of old 
Barney, who had driven you to and from the 
station through countless years; but the thing 
that crystalized your varied emotions and con- 
centrated your scattered feelings into the one 
sensation that can only be described as "feeling 
at home" was the musty fragrance that greeted 
you when you entered Barney's old 'bus. 

Its carpet-covered cushions, with the stuffing 
sticking through in places, had received the 
dust of many summers and had been wet by 
the snows of many winters sifting through the 
cracks of the window-frames and the little red- 
and-blue-glass panes above. They had held 
bodies of all nationalities, dressed in all man- 
ner of garments, and of widely varying degrees 
of cleanliness. They had rested the feet of 
toilers and idlers, and often the heads of sober 
folk and otherwise. And the brushing that 

68 



THE ANCIENT OMNIBUS 

Barney gave them now and then was a mere 
formality — not enough to change their deep- 
down nature. 

Up in front, in a boxed place made for the 
purpose, was a kerosene lamp. The glass door 
in front of it was lettered with the time of ar- 
rival and departure of trains, and the modest 
advertisement of the town jeweler. As the old 
'bus rumbled and swayed and bumped over the 
roads, the lamp flared and flickered, now flam- 
ing high into its chimney, now almost jolted 
out, and often it snuffed out entirely as if weary 
of the struggle to bum decently and in order 
over so rugged a path — as the lamp of many a 
life bums through the long years. The soot- 
dimmed top of the lamp-chimney and the dingy 
glass door in front, threw a weird half-light into 
the old 'bus as it plunged and reeled through 
the black night under overhanging elm-boughs. 

The bottom of the 'bus was straw-covered, 
with a layer of fresh hay on top. Sometimes 
the numb fingers would drop the nickle in the 
straw instead of in the slot of the fare-box up 
front — and it was "lost and gone forever," 
thereafter. 



69 



THE LONG AGO 

Countless feet brought countless varieties 
of dirt through countless years into the straw 
and hay on the floor of the old 'bus. The top 
layer of hay, and perhaps a portion off the top 
of the straw, was removed occasionally — but it 
is doubtful if the lowest stratum of straw ever 
changed with the changeful years. As heavy 
boots tramped down the floor-covering, a little 
more straw, then a little more hay, was sprin- 
kled on top — and it was clean again. 

Little wonder that the pungent fragrance of 
the old 'bus is wafted across the intervening 
years, unchanged, undimmed, unique. The 
carpet-covered cushions exhuded their own pe- 
culiar smell — the smoky oil lamp in the front 
box gave forth its kind, dift'erent but no less 
forceful — the downtrodden straw-and-hay sent 
up its special distilation, not like anything else 
and of strength befitting its hard work — and 
the blending of these smells, together with to- 
bacco fumes, produced that full, rich, ripe and 
unanalyzable odor that made the returning 
traveler settle back into a comer of the 'bus, 
stretch his feet upon its carpet cushions and 
sigh: ''Home at last!" 

70 



THE ANCIENT OMNIBUS 

Do you remember — or can you possibly for- 
get—how cold that 'bus was in winter? The 
outdoors was cold enough— when it frosted 
your ears and bit your nose and whitened Bar- 
ney's moustache when he breathed. But it was 
midsummer compared to the inside of that old 
'bus! The breath of the passengers formed a 
thick cloud, like smoke. Frost covered the 
window-panes a half-inch thick. The cold wind 
blew in through window-cracks, door-frame 
and under the floor. The wheels (Barney never 
put runners on, no matter how fine the sleigh- 
ing) screeched and shrieked over the snow- 
packed streets like the wail of a lost soul. The 
straw, placed there for comfort was the coldest 
thing in the 'bus, notwithstanding you stamped, 
and kicked your feet together, until they got so 
cold and sore that you couldn't stand it to have 
them touch each other again. The senses be- 
came dull and numb— and you finally huddled 
into your garments expecting to perish and 
careless of the fact. Just as you had given up 
all hope and were awaiting the end, you dimly 
felt the horses slow down to a walk, heard Bar- 
ney's sharp command ring out upon the frozen 

71 



THE LONG AGO 

air, saw the horses' heads almost come into the 
window as they swung to make the turn, and 
then felt the 'bus backing, backing, backing 
until . . . bang and bump ! It hit the edge 
of the sidewalk a jolt that almost bounced you 
and your baggage into the waiting arms of the 
family on the porch ! 

When I come back from a trip nowadays, 
there is the big, comfortable touring-car await- 
ing me, with Henry, its keeper, silent and re- 
spectful and efficient. We slip away softly and 
noiselessly and evenly, joltless and jarless and 
bumpless. If the winter is here, Henry has the 
top on and the heater going inside, and Milady's 
perfume is in the cushions and the window- 
hangings. It is all very complete and perfect 
and comfortable. 

Yet somehow, today, I am wishing that it 
had been Barney at the station, coming across 
the platform with arms outstretched to meet 
me, a grin of delight on his bronzed face, the 
ring of deep-hearted welcome in his voice — I 
am wishing that I could climb up the back steps 
of the old 'bus, feel it jar as Barney slammed 

72 



THE ANCIENT OMNIBUS 

the door and sway as he clambered on top — 
and today I would gladly give-up Milady's per- 
fumed curtains of silk if I could fill my nostrils 
with the odor of Barney's old 'bus and feel that 
same peace and comfort and joy that I knew 
when I settled back on those carpet-covered 
seats and sighed : "Home at last!" 



73 







<^ 



.'-•-. 



Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese 

IT seems mighty convenient to telephone your 
grocer to send up a pound of butter and have 
it come all squeezed tight into a nice square- 
cornered cardboard box whose bright and 
multi-colored label assures you that the butter 
has been properly deodorized, fumigated, 
washed, sterilized, antisepticized and conforms 
in every other respect to the Food and Drugs 
Act, Serial 1762973-A. You read the label 
again and feel reasonably safe at meals. 

Huh! Precious little grandmother knew 
about that kind of butter! 

Hers came in a basket — a great big wom- 
brown-and-shiny, round bottom, willow basket, 
hand-woven. It didn't come in any white-and- 
gold delivery wagon, either. It was delivered 

75 



THE LONG AGO 

by a round-faced, rosy-cheeked, gingham- 
gowned picture of health, whose apron-strings 
barely met around the middle — for Frau Hum- 
mel brought it herself — after having first milked 
the cows with her own hands and wielded the 
churning-stick with her own stout arms. She 
had the butter all covered up with fresh, sweet, 
white-linen cloths — and hand-moulded into big 
rolls — each roll ^vrapped in its own immaculate 
cloth — and when that cloth was slowly pulled 
away so that grandmother could stick the point 
of a knife in the butter and test it on her tongue, 
you could see the white salt all over the roll — 
and even the imprint of the cloth-threads . . . 
Good? . . . Why, you could eat it without 
bread ! 

"What else have you got today, Mrs. Hum- 
mel?" (Grandmother never could say "Frau" 
• — and as if she didn't know what else was in 
the basket!) 

"Veil, Mrs. Van, dere is meppe some eks, 
und a dook — und also dere is left von fine 
stuffed geese." 

So the cloth covering was rolled farther 
back — and the 3-dozen eggs were gently taken 

76 



BUTTER, EGGS, DUCKS, GEESE 

out and put in the old tin egg-bucket — and just 
then grandfather came in and lifted tenderly 
out of the basket one of those wonderful geese 
''stuffed" with good food in a dark cellar until 
fat enough for market. . . . Ever have a 
toothful of that kind of goose-breast or second 
joint? . . . No? . . . Your life is yet in- 
complete — you have something to live for! 
. . . Goodness me! I caw 7 describe it! . . . 
How can a fellow tell about such things . . . 
It's like — ^\^^ell, it's like Frau Hummel's "stuffed" 
goose, that's all ! 

And then it was weighed on the old bal- 
ances, or steels — (no, I don't mean scales!) — 
steelyards, you know — a long-armed affair with 
a pear-shaped chunk of iron at one end and a 
hook at the other and a handle somewhere in 
between at the ,center-of-gravity, or some such 
place. . . . Anyway, they gave an honest 
pound, which is perhaps another respect in 
which they were different. 

Then the ducks, too, were unwrapped from 
their white cloths and weighed — usually a pair 
of them — and the old willow basket had noth- 
ing left but its bundle of cloths when Frau Hum- 



77 



THE LONG AGO 

mel started out again on her 10-mile walk to 
the farm. 

Whenever I see a glassy-eyed, feather- 
headed, cold-storage chicken half plucked and 
discolored hanging in a present-day butcher- 
shop accumulating dust — or a scrawny duck 
almost popping through its skin — I think of 
Frau Hummel and her willow basket. . . . 

But Frau Hummel isn't here now^ — and they 
don't build ducks and geese like her's any more 
— and her old willow basket is probably in 
some collection, while we use these machine- 
made things that fall to pieces when you acci- 
dentally stub your toe against them in the cellar. 
. . . We are hurrying along so fast that we 
don't see anything until it's cooked and served. 
. . . We just use the phone and let them send 
us any old thing that they can charge on a bill. 

But in those days grandfather and grand- 
mother inspected everything — and it just had 
to be good — and there weren't any trusts — or 
eggs of various grades from just eggs to strictly 
fresh eggs and on down to eggs guaranteed to 
boil without crowing. Every Frau Hummel in 
the country wanted the Van Alstyne trade — 

78 



BUTTER, EGGS, DUCKS, GEESE 

and Frau Hummel knew it — and she never 
brought anything to that back kitchen door un- 
less it was perfect of its kind. 

No wonder grandfather lived to be 92 and 
grandmother 86 — in good health and spirits to 
the last! 



79 





Cobbler John 



COBBLER JOHN, master shoe-maker and 
mender, and the greatest fisherman on the 
river, silently pegged boots on his bench sur- 
rounded by his assortment of knives and things. 
If a fellow could only get a knife as sharp as 
one of his ! 

I used to wonder how he caught so many 
fish and such whopping big ones. He never 
used a jointed rod or a reel or more line than 
the length of his ancient bamboo pole, while I 
had every modern device, even to three spoon- 
hooks. 

But now I think I understand it. 

He fished just as he worked — silently, stead- 
ily, ever fishing to catch fish, watching every 
change of water and weather, never diverted 
by some new bird-note on the bank or the faces 
and animals that formed in the passing clouds. 

He made good boots because he punched 

81 



THE LONG AGO 

the awl-holes and drove home the wooden pegs 
with his short, strong hammer hour after hour 
while the daylight lasted and even into the early 
dusk, stopping only to scrutinize the incoming 
shoe-wrecks and make a price on the job. And 
so, too, he fished' — as purposeful as he pegged 
— and that was all he professed to do — just 
work when he worked and fish when he fished. 

Perhaps, in the evening, alone with his wife 
in the little home, he practiced on his slide 
trombone — but that was the spiritual side of 
his nature, well concealed from all the world 
except his few long-suffering neighbors. 

So day by day he kept dropping the quarters 
and half-dollars into his little tin box, spending 
fewer than he received, pegging on contentedly ; 
and betimes he fished the river in the same way, 
doing the little things while I dreamed big ones. 

If only someone had taught me the lesson of 
Cobbler John ! 



82 




The Little White Church 

IT was strictly orthodox inside, but not out> 
side — for it had no steeple. The steeple- 
base was there, but the spire was lacking — as 
were the spire funds. So they gave it a simple 
round dome, put a bell in it, and one day when 
John Hardie, the venerable Scotch sexton, 
grasped the new rope in his knotty hands and 
bent arms and body to his task, the bell sent 
forth its summons, the congregation filed into 
the building and began worship as fervently, 
no doubt, as if the stubby dome had been a 
high-reared spire over-topping the nearby elms. 

The church was white, with green shutters. 
It stood on a corner across from the city park 
— ^the park that occupied a whole square and 
had diagonal paths connecting its corners, with 
a wobbly wooden turnstile at each entrance. 

83 



THE LONG AGO 

Sunday morning the carriages and wagons 
came one by one and found each its place at 
the long hitching-rack or at one of the several 
hitching-posts, or Dobbin stood in the shade of 
a tree, a leather strap snapped into his bit-ring, 
and an iron weight at the other end. 

Sometimes a trusted animal waited patient- 
ly, head down, and immovable, untied and free 
except for his own sense of duty which fastened 
him to his special spot more relentlessly than 
any post or iron disk could do. No sound or 
movement from him but an occasional shiver 
under his blanket in winter and a swishing of 
his tail in summer when the flies bothered, until 
the first worshipper appeared on the church 
steps after service; then a lift of the head, a 
thrusting foi'ward of his ears, and one gentle, 
happy neigh to tell that he had remained faith- 
ful to his trust and was ready for home and his 
boxstall in the bam. 

The untied horse made a deep impression 
upon my boy mind. There were so few of him 
— and I could not understand it then. Most of 
the horses had to be tied. The high-spirited 
ones could go faster and looked grander — but 

84 



THE LITTT.E WHITE CHURCH 

they made a lot of trouble. They were forever 
getting the reins under their feet, or twisting 
around to see what was going on until they 
nearly upset the buggy, or chewing the top of 
the hitching-post in spite of its protective wrap- 
ping of wire, or working their blankets off onto 
the ground. And the greatest puzzle of all to 
mei — then — was that the high-spirited ones re- 
ceived the most flattery and attention, while the 
tiTisted and faithful one was little noticed — 
taken as a matter of course. 

It seemed to me I'd rather be an untied 
horse — there was something fine about being 
trusted and standing with no other leash than 
a master's faith. 



After service there was the hum of happy 
visiting among friends and neighbors — perhaps, 
only perhaps, to stand a moment in the glory 
of a new shawl or bonnet, a new suit or shiny 
silk stovepipe hat. Some always wanted to 
speak to the minister, descended from his pulpit 
to mingle with his flock. So slowly did the con- 
gregation disperse — for the country-folk and 
town-people seldom met except at church, and 

86 



THE LONG AGO 

there were many things in the week's life to 
talk about — that impatient Hardie, the sexton, 
fidgetted with his keys and made no secret of 
his opinion that visiting should be done on 
week-days and not keep a good man from his 
Sunday dinner. 

There was more to the Little White Church 
than just a spireless building with green shut- 
ters and a fervent sermon within. There was 
the frequent oyster supper of the Clover Club^ — 
the church's entertainment feature that welded 
the members into more or less social unity, and 
incidently, or chiefly, raised funds to keep 
things going. You remember those suppers, 
don't you — the steaming oyster stew and a 
pickle and some odds and ends contributed by 
willing hands and hearts — all for twenty-five 
cents, for the benefit of the Salary Fund. No 
doubt you recited a "piece" at some of these 
functions, or sang "Annie Laurie" or "The Last 
Rose of Summer," or played the piano or waited 
on table. 

Perhaps you can recall how you started in 
the Sunday-school and gradually grew into a 
promotion as usher and passed the plate for 

86 



THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH 

collection — until you were finally selected for 
a place in the choir and thereby reached the 
very pinnacle of achievement. Will you ever 
forget the peculiar sensation — it would have 
been a thrill in any other place than that solemn 
church — as your shaking knees bore you uncer- 
tainly up the steps to the choir box, and you 
faced that assemblage of folk and for the first 
time looked down upon their upturned eyes, 
eyes concentrated just upon you — and you could 
almost hear them whispering to a neighbor in 
the pew: 'Well, well! If that ain't Jamie 
Tomkins up there in the choir, and him only a 
babe in arms a while back !" 



And the Sunday-school picnic — my, my, 
how the memories come thronging! I never 
see a calf in a pasture that I don't remember 
the veal loaf of those Sunday-school picnics! 
There was never enough veal loaf — I don't be- 
lieve I ever had enough of it, or will ever get 
enough — for they don't make it quite the same 
now as it was then. In the Sunday-school picnic 
time I ever wanted more, and there was none. 
Today, when I can have the whole loaf if I want 

87 



THE LONG AGO 

it, it doesn't taste the same, and I don't want it. 
As I remember, there was never enough of any- 
thing in those days and at those picnics except 
bread and buttei^ — and who wanted bread and 
butter at a Sunday-school picnic! ... It 
seemed to me that the day of the Sunday-school 
picnic must have been always fixed by the 
farmers who wanted rain. The unfailing coin- 
cidence of rain-and-picnics left no other conclu- 
sion possible. ... I have tried bravely to 
live down my resentment toward those who 
dated the Sunday-school picnic on a rainy day, 
and at the annual and inevitable insufficiency 
of veal loaf in spite of my direct suggestions on 
the subject — but I find it hard, very hard. 

Yet shining through the years there glows a 
vision that compensates in generous measure 
and that lives as vivid and effulgent and spark- 
ling today as it shone in the long ago. Right 
this minute I can feel the expectancy and thrill 
of that moment when on Christmas Eve I 
pushed and crowded my way with innumerable 
companions through the big front doors of the 
church and gazed enraptured upon the huge 



THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH 

Christmas-tree uplifted from the platform; its 
branches festooned with yards and yards of 
white popcorn strings; its green mass alight 
with candles held by tin candlesticks with a ball 
beneath for a balance; glittering tinsel spark- 
ling amid the cotton-snow on its limbs; pink- 
gauze, candy-filled stockings dangling every- 
where — and at the very tip of the tree, almost 
touching the ceiling, there gleamed a wonderful 
star, the star of Bethlehem that lighted the 
watchful shepherds on their pilgrimage to the 
blessed cradle in the manger. 

On the platform, under the tree's spreading 
lower boughs, were large packages, too weighty 
to be suspended. Next came the lesser ones 
that bent the twigs where they were tied; and 
the small packages that might be a Watch or a 
ring or a new silver dollar, or almost any cher- 
ished hope, hung in tantalizing profusion away 
up to the uppermost branches. 

The preliminary '^exercises" — recitations 
and ^'pieces" and songs and such like — were 
almost unendurable, with the possible excep- 
tion of 'The night before Christmas when all 
through the house not a creature was stirring, 

89 



THE LONG AGO 

not even a mouse." Years and ages and eons 
seemed to pass before a jingle of sleigh bells 
and a tramping of feet announced the arrival of 
a wonderful and really-truly Santa Glaus — ^his 
pack on his back, snow on his red coat, and 
unquestionably a reindeer sleigh waiting for 
him on the roof to bear him on his way when 
he had finished his work with us. Breathless, 
rigid, almost tearful, we waited and watched 
as one by one the packages were lifted from 
the floor or unfastened from the tree and the 
names they bore were called out. Could it be 
possible that there was no package there for 
me — that my name would not resound through 
that crowded room? . . . Suddenly it came 
— my own name — only to find me faint with 
joy, frozen to my seat with the intensity of my 
happiness, until I revived enough to feel Aunt 
Em poke me and hear her say: "Hurry, hurry, 
Jamie, run along now guick and get your 
present ! 

Christmas, and the tree on Christmas Eve 
at the Little White Church on the Corner! 
Through the down-fluttering snow-storm of 

90 



THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH 

greetings-cards of Today I see your wide- 
spreading branches and tapered form crowded 
with love-gifts and glowing with light. I can 
still feel the warmth of your gladsome festival 
and taste the sweet illusion of your red-coated 
Santa Claus . . . and gleaming through the 
mists that intervene between the Then and the 
Now, there blazes aloft in the dark night of 
things the Star of Bethlehem, ever leading to 
the manger-cradle; ever guiding through the 
hills and valleys of Galilee, ever pointing the 
upward way. 



It is prayer-meeting night. Sexton Hardie 
has lighted his lamps and is sitting in his far- 
back pew, his head in his hand, quiet and wait- 
ing. One or two members of the choir have 
come in and taken their seats. The minister 
has gone up the steps and spoken to them, and 
slipped into his place. But we will not go in 
tonight — we will sit here in the park across the 
street in the soft spring evening, lie down on 
the long cool grass v/ith stars peeping down 
upon us through the wide-spreading branches 
of the elms, and the lights of the Little Church 

91 



THE LONG AGO 

on the Corner shining through the night. And 
floating out through the open windows we will 
hear that old familiar hymn : 

''Yes we'll gather at the river, 
The beautiful, the beautiful ri-i-ver, 
Gather with the saints at the riv-er, 
That flows by the throne of God.'* 



92 




"Here in our Great Garden that 
has no walls, are Voices that we 
know, telling stories that we 
love." 




"Grandfather Van Alstyne was 
a gentleman of the old school. " 



Grandfather Van Alstyne 

OF ALL the playmates of my child years, 
none lives more vividly and lovingly in 
memory than my delightful companion, Grand- 
father Van Alstyne. Companion, indeed, he 
was — for his characteristic and cheerful smile 
when I slipped softly into the office and stood 
beside him seated in his favorite chair, and the 
old affectionate way he called me "Billy," a 
way I had learned to expect and love, were the 
outward signs of an inward bond established 
by a perfect understanding and a comradeship 
of the spirit which grew and strengthened not- 
withstanding the very considerable discrepancy 
in our ages. 

Some folks understand some things; other 
folks understand other things ; but in every boy- 
hood there is one rare soul, and only one, who 
understands all things. Mothers and fathers 
are apt to be unnecessarily authoritative at 
times. Grandmothers are ever niervous and 



93 



THE LONG AGO 

solicitous rospociini!,* .unindcliildron. Playmates 
iwc cither inlcriors or grudinp^ly-admitted 
equals. Mankind at large is usually self- 
absorbed, or patronizing of youth to curry favor 
with parents, and ho})elessly iniinteresting and 
not to be too far trusted. Rut grandfather — he 
rc^presented all that throbbing, pulsating Boy- 
hood rcupiired in a conu-ade for all occasions, 
a confuhuit u]>on all subjects. 

Grandfather understood women-folk and 
their frequently-mistaken view-points as well 
as 1 did, or a bit bettei*. He, too, admitted then* 
virtues and discerned their frailties, and the 
impossibility of entrusting them with one's in- 
nermost secrets — especially concerning the need 
o( actually going into the water .to learn to 
swim, and the earning-power of a lad and a 
iish[H)le in supplying the family table with 
strictly-fresh bass and pike and the need of an 
occasional nickle to meet the pressing demands 
of marble-time or to honorably discharge cer- 
tain obligations incurred among one's fellows 
during the visits of the circus or at soda-foun- 
tains. 

Moreover, grandfather was worldly-wise — 

94 



GRANDFATHER VAN ALSTYNE 

he knew all thinj^s since the beginning of time 
and well into the future, and was ever ready 
with an answer or an explanation that fully met 
each of countless questions arising from day to 
day. In the matter of silence — well, grand- 
father was a man, too, and could understand 
that there were certain things supposedly well 
hidden but eventually discovered, which need 
not be published broadcast in the household. 

And chiefly, perhaps, grandfather was no 
believer in corporal punishment — as was once 
made clear when he rescued you from the 
avenging slipper of a woman bent upon putting 
you to bed before dark against your resounding 
wail of protest and your unshakeable grii) upon 
the stair-rail. This was only one of many i)roors 
of grandfather's dependability — one of in- 
numerable circumstances that established and 
cemented a bond of affectionate understanding 
that not only made it possible for you to survive 
the ordeal of boyhood, but which has lived 
through the years to gladden your soul today. 
On his side, too, there was a knowledge that 
Boyhood's code-of-honor could be depended 
upon, and upon the occasion of many intimate 

95 



THE LONG AGO 

journeys with Grandfather Van, when it was 
my privilege to be his sole companion, certain 
manly coniidences were exchanged which his 
trust, imposed so implicitly in me, even now 
forbids my detailing. 

Grandfather Van Alstyne was, indeed, a 
gentleman of the old school, not only outwardly 
in the matter of personal appearance, but in- 
wardly with respect to principles and procedure. 
His person was quite worthy the brush of a 
Sargent or of his own distinguished country- 
man. Van Dyke. Dressed invariably in broad- 
cloth of the finest texture and most costly sort, 
his long coat collared with black velvet of the 
softest kind and with broad lapels rolling down- 
ward gracefully from the shoulders, he pre- 
sented a notable example of the correctly- 
tailored gentleman of the period whose gar- 
ments were made strictly with reference to 
endurance, propriety and elegance, with no 
thought other than to cheerfully and promptly 
pay the good tailor's bill, whatever it mightUe, 
so only the work was well done. The coat's 
wide opening at the front exposed an expanse 
of immaculate linen garment, far too handsome 

96 



GRANDFATHER VAN AT.STYNE 

to be termed a shirt as we of today know that 
article of api)arel, and of texture so fine and 
delicate that its ruffles stood in sheer fluffy rows 
from out of which one caught an occasional 
gleam of plain gold studs. Around his throat 
was wound a linen stock, even more sheer and 
delicate than the wonderful garment it sur- 
mounted, and tied at the front in a wide bow 
carefully and lovingly constructed (if I may use 
that term) by Grandmother Van before grand- 
father was permitted to make his appearance 
for the day. Upon his head he wore a high silk 
hat, with a broad black band reaching almost 
two-thirds of the distance from the rim to the 
crown and thereby exposing only a relatively 
narrow band of glistening silk which had been 
painstakingly stroked with his red-plush- 
backed brush. His splendid boots, reaching 
almost to the knee, were topped with copper- 
colored leather, as would have appeared had 
you been able to induce him to exhibit their 
glories in full. Such portion as the public was 
privileged to view was highly |)olished and 
showed no seam, very obviously indicating that 
the boots had been cut from one piece of ma- 

97 



THE LONG AGO 

terial — for grandfather had often assured me 
that no gentleman should wear a boot made 
otherwise than from a single piece of leather. 
From beneath his low-cut waistcoat depended 
a watch-fob — the watch attached to it was a 
Liverpool railroad watch, engraved marvelously 
with a complete train of cars-and-engine ex- 
tending entirely around the center of the 
timepiece, which had cost $175 in Liverpool 
and obtainable at that low price only through 
the good offices of a friend in the w^atch bus- 
iness, from whom a discount had been secured. 
The last touch needed to complete this interest- 
ing picture was found in his rosewood cane with 
its inlaid ivory handle of black, worn shiny by 
long use, whose metal ferrule tapped the bricks 
of the sidewalk musically and rhythmically, 
indicating no special need for the stick as a 
supporting agent, but carried merely in con- 
formity to a long-continued custom brought 
forward from the days when Grandfather Van 
was the Beau Brummel of his burgh. 

This scrupulous attention to every detail of 
his personal appearance was not, as I event- 
ually discovered, mere vanity. It was only 

98 



GRANDFATHER VAN ALSTYNE 

character externalized — one way of expressing 
himself. This was proved to me gradually, as 
I noted the pervading law of order and account- 
ability throughout the premises. The back yard 
was as immaculately clean as a back yard could 
be ; more than that, it was clean. Even the barn 
was swept, the meat-house floor was scrubbed, 
the wooden sidewalks were kept dirt-free in 
summer and snow-clear in winter, and the 
kitchen and dining-room and hallway and oflice, 
uncarpeted, were soap-and-watered regularly 
and often by Bridget down on her knees with 
a scrub-brush and a pail of soft soap. This 
cleanliness which was so marked a character- 
istic was no mere veneer, of outward and super- 
ficial origin. It came from within — was a 
reflection of an absolutely clean heart. 

(Don't you remember how that liquid soap, 
home made, spread over the floor just ahead of 
Bridget's advancing form and suddenly evolved 
into suds under her powerful brush — and how 
she soused pails of water over the floor after- 
ward — and then mopped it vigorously and left 
it, while everyone was excluded from the room 
until it was good and dry. Can't you smell that 

99 



THE LONG AGO 

newly-scrubbed room this minute — a pungent 
fragrance of indescribable quality that floated 
through the whole house.) 

Grandfather was not without a fair allot- 
ment of human frailties — but they were not 
serious. Few persons knew him or undei*stood 
him. He was too wise to trust all men, too dis- 
cerning to confide unreservedly in the gentler 
sex — but he could open his heart to a child. For 
at 80 he, too, was a child in spirit and only the 
child knew that, for we were children together, 
80 and 8. Grandfather was called proud, and 
rightly. They meant vanity when they said 
pride, and perhaps such was the outward seem- 
ing. But they had not crept into his heart, and 
the child had — so the child knew that his pride 
was his own natural and normal knowledge of 
innate cleanness and the confidence of right 
motives. They said he was exacting — so he 
was ; yet he exacted no more than he gave, and 
gave graciously and naturally, as modestly and 
as purposefully as The River flowed in its ap- 
pointed channel fulfilling its destiny. Severe, 
they said, meaning relentless — but they did not 
know, because they looked at him only on the 

100 



GRANDFATHER VAN ALSTYNE 

outside, that it was the severity of justice and 
a high standard and not the arbitrary demands 
of a willful individual. They tell it still, among 
those who today remain treading the paths that 
know him no more, that once a man sat in his 
office and began whittling the arm of his chair. 
Seeing it, grandfather arose, went to his side, 
took out his knife, and sliced a piece from the 
fellow's coat collar. And to the whittler's 
wrathful protest, grandfather quietly replied: 
**If you whittle my chair, I shall whittle your 
coat." The manner of his saying it, and his 
bearing as he stood, left little doubt either of 
his purpose or his ability to execute it. The 
story spread — and chair-whittling in grand- 
father's office became an obsolete custom. 

Many there were who knew his unique per- 
sonality, his quaint and forceful eccentricities, 
and who felt the quality of his hospitality; but 
few men and perhaps only one woman, and she 
but partly, knew his soul. For his was the soul 
of a child — he thought as a child, he loved as a 
child, and he trusted as a child when he trusted 
at all. Best of all he played as a child and with 
one — and it is in our playtime that the heart of 

101 



THE LONG AGO 

us is seen, for there is no bondage then of con- 
vention or fear. And we played much together, 
grandfather and I, children of 80 and 8. 

Vain? Was it vanity that brought him to 
my play-groUnd in the back yard, where the 
artesian well flowed a miniature brook from its 
iron pipe across the yard to the street-drain 
under the sidewalk, and that made him sail 
boats with me along its wet and muddy banks 
until the water spoiled those shiny boots and 
the dirt speckled that wonderful broad-cloth 
and the breeze and tree-boughs roughed the 
shiny silk of his hat? 

Exacting? Was it exacting that he took me 
on his knee and patiently heard my confession 
of depredations upon his carefully-guarded 
sugar barrels, of runaway hours on swimming 
parties, of plans for birds'-egg excursions and 
unnumbered kindred misdemeanors, and that 
he discussed them with me man to man, encour- 
aging all that was wholesome, reforming what 
was unworthy not by punishment but by ban- 
ishing the desire to stray? Was it exacting that 
he weighed in so fine a balance the consider- 
ations of youth and accountability and delved 
for motives? 

102 



GRANDFATHER VAN ALSTYNE 

Severe? Was it severe that he chose reason 
instead of the rod with one who was seeking 
the right path but whose careless feet often led 
him far afield; or that in the solemn presence 
of an impressionable child he chose to live up- 
rightly in the sight of that child rather than fill 
his ears with precept or sprawl him lap-wise 
beneath a descending slipper? Was it severity 
that slipped a nickle into the child's chubby 
hand and sent him on his way without ever ask- 
ing how he was going to spend it? 

Delightful companion of the Boy Time and 
the ever after, we have not lost each other just 
because our hands happen to have become dis- 
engaged here. We are still traveling on to- 
gether, heart to heart, even as the sweet memory 
of you has remained with me through the lonely 
years. For there is no Age in the land where 
you and I met and played together — where we 
still live and will ever live in that heart-bond 
that in my Twilight brings back to me the tex- 
ture of your wonderful broadcloth coat, the 
sheerness of your marvelous linen, the tapping 
of your rosewood cane upon the walk as we go 

103 



THE LONG AGO 

hand in hand toward the candy-shop, the pre- 
cious comfort of your knees and encircling* arms 
and the sweet presence and quietness and glory 
of your upright, unafraid and unselfed life. 



IM 



The Rain 




IT is early, and Saturday morning — very, very 
early. 

Listen ! ... An unmistakable drip, drip, 
drip . . . and the room is dark. 

A bound out of bed — a quick step to the 
window — an anxious peering through the wet 
panes . . . and the confirmation is complete. 

It is raining — and on Saturday; the familiar 
leaden skies and steady drip that spell perma- 
nency and send the robin to the shelter of some 
thick bush, and leave only an occasional un- 
daunted swallow cleaving the air on swift wing. 

In all the world there is no sadness like that 
which in boyhood sends you back to bed on 
Saturday morning with the mournful drip, drip, 
drip of a steady rain doling in your ears. 

Out in the woodshed there is a can of the 
largest, fattest angle-worms ever dug from a 
rich garden-plot— all so happily, so feverishly. 



106 



THE LONG AGO 

so exultantly captured last night when Antici- 
pation strengthened the little muscles that 
wielded the heavy spade. All safe in their 
black soil they wait, coiled round and round 
each other into a solid worm-ball in the bottom 
of the can. 

A mile down the river the dam is calling — 
the tumbled waters are swirling and eddying 
and foaming over the deep places where the 
black-bass wait — and old Shoemaker John, 
patriarch of the river, is there this very minute, 
unwinding his pole, for well he knows that if 
one cares to brave the weather he will catch the 
largest and finest and most bass when the rain 
is falling on the river. 

But small boys who have anxious mothers 
do not go fishing on rainy days — so there is no 
need of haste, and one might as well go back 
to bed and sleep unconcernedly just as late as 
possible. If only a fellow could get up between 
showers, or before the rain actually starts, so 
that he could truthfully say: "But, mother, 
really and truly, it wasn't raining when we 
started!" it would be all right, and the escape 
was warrantable, justified and safe; but with 

106 



THE RAIN 

the rain actually falling, there was nothing to 
do but go to sleep again and turn the worms 
back into the garden if the rain didn't let up by 
noon. 



It is one of the miracles of life that Boyhood 
can turn grief into joy and become almost in- 
stantly reconciled to the inevitable like a tnie 
philosopher, and change a sorrow into a bless- 
ing. The companion miracle is that Manhood 
with its years of wisdom forgets how to do this. 

And so, when the rainy day becomes hope- 
lessly rainy, and Shoemaker John is left 
alone at the dam, the rain that sounded so dis- 
mal at dawn proves to be a benefactor after all. 
There will be no wood-splitting today, no out- 
door chores — for if it's too wet to go fishing, as 
mother insists, of course it's too wet to carry 
wood, or weed gardens or pick cucumbers for 
pickles. The logic is so obvious and conclusive 
that even mother does not press the point when 
you remind her of it — and you are free for a 
whole day in the attic. 

Instantly the blessing is manifest — the sad- 
ness of that day-break drip, drip, drip is healed 

107 



THE LONG AGO 

— the whole character of the day is changed, 
and the rain-melody becomes not a dirge but 
a dance. 

The attic is the place of all places you would 
most love to be on this particular calendar day ! 

How stupid to spoil a perfectly good Satur- 
day by sitting on a hard beam, with wet spray 
blowing in your face all the time, and getting 
all tired out holding a heavy fish-pole, when 
here is the attic waiting for you with its mys- 
terious dark corners, its scurrying mice that 
suddenly develop into lions for your bow-and- 
arrow hunting, and its maneuvers on the broad 
field of its floor with yourself as the drum-corps 
and your companions as the army equipped 
with wooden swords and paper helmets! 



The day has been rich in adventure, and ex- 
ploration, and the doing of great deeds. 

And it has been all too short, for the attic 
is growing dim, and mother is again calling us 
— telling us to send our little playmates home 
and come and get our bread and milk. 

A last arrow is shot into the farthest corner 
where some undiscovered jungle beast may be 
prowling. 

108 



THE RAIN 

A last roll is given to the drum, and the 
army disbands. 

A sudden fear seizes upon us as we realize 
that night has come and we are in the attic, 
alone. 

And with no need of further urging we 
scamper unceremoniously down the stairs, slam 
the attic door, and hurry into the kitchen where 
Maggie has our table waiting. 



Eight o'clock — and we're all tucked away 
among the feathers again.' 

Aren't we glad we didn't go down to the 
river — it would have been a cold, dismal day 
— and perhaps they weren't biting today, 'dny- 
way — and we should have gotten very wet. 

It is still raining, raining hard — pattering 
unceasingly on the roof . . . And the tin 
eave-troughs are singing their gentle lullaby of 
running water trickling from the shingles . . . 
a lullaby so soothing that we do not hear mother 
softly open the door . . . and come to our 
crib . . . and place the little bare arms un- 
der the covers . . . and leave a kiss on the 
yellow curls and a benediction in the room. 

109 







Aunt Em's Farm 

THERE'S a buggy in that cloud of dust on 
the road. It's probably Farmer Griswold 
and Aunt Em, with the old freckled white horse, 
coming in from the farm. Their low, rambling, 
white-and-green farm-house in the midst of 
wide acres was just outside the town toward 
the fair-grounds on the other side of the rail- 
road tracks. 

Over near the big barn where the tobacco 
hung drying and pungent, stood the two huge 
butternut trees whose nuts were so rich and oily 
and had hard rough shells that made your 
thumb and forefinger tingle and smart when 
they cracked under your hammer-and-flatiron. 
The hay-barn, piled full almost to the roof, 
made fine diving practice — for one could climb 
onto the very topmost rafter and jump fear- 
lessly into the billows of hay, to be bounced and 

111 



THE LONG AGO 

tumbled and sometimes rolled over the edge 
down to the floor below. 

Along the pasture fence there were heavily- 
loaded wild-plum trees with their red and 
squashy sun-ripened fruit so rich and sweet — 
each one just a good mouthful^ — swallow the 
skins and see how far you can blow the stones ! 

Beyond the tobacco-field was the river, wid- 
ened here to a noble stream running shallow 
over its stones that made bubbly, musical riffles 
where the black-bass came to sun themselves 
and feed. Here was a wonderful field for ex- 
ploration — it seemed so far away from every- 
thing, and wild, and it required a brave heart 
and dauntless courage to walk alone down the 
little-used road with only the bamboo fish-pole 
for protection ; for there stood the big red bull 
in the adjoining pasture, throwing great clouds 
of dust with his hoofs, and who could tell when 
he might take a notion to smash the fence and 
plunge to an attack. The end of the road held 
allurements potent enough to banish all fear — 
for it led straight into the stream, where shoes 
and stockings were hastily discarded, and legs 
bared to the knee splashed into the cool waters, 

112 



AUNT EM'S FARM 

unmindful of the stones that scratched and 
bruised and the little crabs that wriggled tick- 
lingly from under a descending toe. 

But the house was a treasure-trove almost 
awesome in its delights. There was a parlor, 
nearly always with the curtains drawn down 
except when "company" came — solemn and 
shivery and silent, its chairs carefully cloth- 
covered, its shining black-hair sofa, its long 
be'an-string portieres, its what-not with the fas- 
cinating round glass paper-weight with a turtle 
inside which always wriggled its legs and tail, 
and its gorgeous bouquet of wax flowers under 
a glass bowl. 

In Grandmother Pease's bedroom there 
were thrilling story-books — a whole set of them 
— never found elsewhere before, or then, or 
since, to be read by the hour until one's soul 
was saturated with determination to emulate 
their great deeds and duplicate their hair- 
breadth escapes. 

Chiefly there was the cookie-pantry with its 
covered stone crock always brim-full of cookies 
— and a cup of milk dipped right out of one of 
the countless big pans in the spring-house, and 
a handful of Aunt Em's cookies. 

113 



THE LONG AGO 

Out on the porch there was a hammock 
made of barrel staves and filled with cushions 
— a place to lie on one's back and see castles in 
Spain and deeds of valor form themselves so 
easily and generously in the fleecy white clouds 
that floated in the sky. 

So isn't it great to see Aunt Em's buggy 
there in the dust-cloud and to know that she'll 
drive in town some Saturday and take us back 
to the farm with her for over Sunday . . . 
and let us poke the pigs, and hunt the field-mice 
with Major the dog, and watch the milking at 
evening — and actually sleep away from home 
one long blissful night ! 



114 




Flies and Fly-traps 

FTER ALL, come to think of it, 
the Old Folks never made such a 
fuss about flies as we make 
nowadays. You cannot pick up 
a magazine without running 
plumb into an article on the deadly housefly— 
with pictures of him magnified until he looks 
like the old million-toed, barrel-eyed, spike- 
tailed dragon of your boyhood mince-pie 
dreams. The first two pages convince you that 
the human race is doomed to extermination 
within eighteen months by the housefly route ! 

Grandmother never resorted to very drastic 
measures. The most violent thing she ever did 
was to get little Annie, Bridget-the-house- 
woman's Annie, to help her chase them out. 
They went from room to room periodically 
(when flies became too numerous), each armed 
with an old sawed-off broom-handle on which 
were tacked long cloth streamers— a sort of 
cat-o'-nine-tails effect, only with about a score 
or more of tails. After herding the blue-bottles 
and all their kith and kin into a fairly compact 
bunch at the door, little Annie opened the 

116 



THE LONG AGO 

screen and grandmother drove them out — and 
that's all there was to it. 

Another favorite device (particularly in the 
dining-room and kitchen), was the "fly-gallery" 
— a wonderful array of multicolored tissue- 
paper festooned artistically from the ceiling or 
around the gas-pipes to lure or induce the fly 
into moments of inactivity. There was no ex- 
termination in this device — it was purely pre- 
ventive in its function — the idea being that 
since there must be fly-specks, better to mass 
them as much as possible on places where they 
would show the least and could be removed the 
easiest when sufl^iciently accumulated. 

But the greatest ounce-of-prevention was 
the screen hemisphere. Gee ! I haven't thought 
of that thing for years, have you? Of course 
you remember it — absolutely fly-proof — one 
clapped over the butter, another over the 
cracker-bowl, another over the sugar. 

And say ! I almost forgot ! . . . (Yes, I 
know you were just going to speak of it ! ) . . . 
That conical screen fly-trap — where the flies 
see something good inside, crawl up to the top 
and then over and in — and then can't get out 

116 



FLIES AND FLY-TRAPS 

— but just buzz and buzz and buzz — and make 
a lot of fuss about it— blue-bottles and all— no 
respecter of persons — and when it gets full of 
the quick and dead in flydom, Bridget takes it 
out in the back yard and dumps it. Very simple 
. . . clean, peaceful, effective. 

My, My! But it's a far cry back to those 
days, isn't it? And wouldn't you like to right 
this mintue sneak into the cool, curtain-down, 
ever-so-quiet dining-room again . . . and 
nose around to see if anything edible had been 
overlooked — and see one of those dear old 
round fly-screens guarding the sugar! 



117 



f#;| !¥*».•-■ 

•>llllpill. '^ 
VBSa 



The 

Little Old 
Town 



Ll^yr'S K<> J><i<'l^ ^<> '^ MKJiin— })ack to the; Little 
Old 'rown rK^stlinjij iimon^^ W\(\ rolliujA" hilla 
alon^^ the river . . . Somehow, in the Today, 
the niasHed Hky-aenipers and th(; .steady roar of 
traflic and th(! ur^in^, ev(!r nr^in^, I)r(!SHur(i of 
th(! (ireat (City's n^lentleas (Jeinandn and tlie 
glamour that hired UH into its vortex when 
Ambition raeed hot-l)iooded through our v(una 
— have l)ecom(; strangely em[)ty to our (hdled 
senses; and the Little Ohl Town of that won- 
derful Y(!st(!rday n.'aches out its kindly hand 
to st(;ady our stei)s and warm our heart with its 
gentle touc^h. 

Wouldn't you like to walk down Main 



J Hi 



THE LONG AGO 

Street again, and feel the soft pine boards of 
the wooden sidewalks that resounded under 
your heeh^i — and see the wide blue sky gleam- 
ing above the low roofs of the stores — and meet 
the familiar groups of neighbors chatting at 
the postoffice — and feel your little cares slip 
away into Nowhere with the fading day when 
the Little Old Town grows silent in the twilight 
and only the frogs are heard in far-off chorus 
on the river-bank. . . . 

Barney will meet us at the depot — Barney 
the liveryman, and his musty old hack with its 
bright blue cushions. He didn't have any other 
name — or anyway, no one knew it, or wanted 
to know it, except Lawyer Bell who drew his 
will. Jolly, jovial, reliable old Barney — a poor 
man, we thought, until he at last took the Long 
Journey and Lawyer Bell dug up ten thousand 
dollars under the floor of the '^office" in his 
livery-stable. Ten thousand dollars! There 
were only a few persons in the Little Old Town 
who could even think that much money! It 
was years before the wonder of it ceased to 
furnish talk among the groups at the postoflice, 
and even today there are some who remember 
it, and are still full of the wonder of it. 

120 



THE LITTLE OLD TOWN 

What a welcome he'll give us, will old Bar- 
ney! He'll take our baggage and want us to 
ride inside the hack (a rare privilege at double 
fare) with his hired driver. But no siree! We 
want to go in the big 'bus — which only Barney 
himself ever drives — and we'll climb up the 
little iron ladder and swing ourselves onto his 
high seat, alongside Barney, and hold one of 
the lines (or perhaps both if the road isn't bad), 
and hear all about everything. For Barney 
knows all — he gets them when they first come 
and he takes them when they last go, and be- 
tween times he hears all about them from their 
neighbors. The every-Saturday newspaper has 
little to tell that Barney doesn't already know 
— and what he knows that the paper doesn't tell 
would fill many papers. 



Here is Postmaster Moak's place — the big 
brown house set in the middle of a whole block, 
fenced with thick evergreen hedges and its 
brick walks bordered with them, all trimmed to 
the same height, squared and topped so that 
not so much as a twig is out of place to mar the 
perfect blocking. 



121 



THE LONG AGO 

There's Lawyer Bell just coming down the 
broad stone steps of his mansion on the corner. 
Its high-ceilinged parlor, with rich hangings 
and furnishings and hand-painted family por- 
traits of famous ancestors over the mantel, was 
so imposing, and awe-inspiring, and grand, and 
cold. His conlident step is unchanged and un- 
affected by the oncoming years, his absorbed 
thought is as oblivious and his greeting is as 
brief as it has always been. Perhaps if we held 
the secrets and the destinies and even the repu- 
tations of a whole town locked in our breast we, 
too, might be men of fewer words. 

But Banker Williams, just turning the cor- 
ner, is smiling as usual through his long beard. 
A plain man, they called him — as often seen 
with the white of his flour-mill upon his coat as 
with the stately black of his banker's clothes 
unsoiled. 

And there's Justice Parker, stomping 
straight and purposeful and determined down 
the street loudly tapping the sidewalk with his 
gold-headed cane. Speak to him if you dare, 
boy^ — if you think that Time has dimmed his 
memory — you who snow-balled his silk hat that 

122 



THE LITTLE OLD TOWN 

day and he saw you do it . . . Alas, that day ! 
It hurts me yet, mother! 



Main Street! . . . Drive slowly, Barney 
— let 'em walk awhile. There's the old sprink- 
ling-cart wetting down the dust of the street — 
and there's the postoffice with the same crowd 
sitting on the iron railing and the teams hitched 
to the posts at the side. . . . There's Eliza 
Curtis watering the red geraniums in the win- 
dow boxes of her second-story rooms above 
Jones' dry-goods store. She owned that whole 
block, and had some marvellous silk dresses so 
stiff they'd almost stand alone . . . Seems 
to me Mr. Fuhrman ought to get his cigar-store 
Indian painted — its peeling . . . There sits 
old Tom Spencer, on the balcony over the post- 
ofRce, with his big feet cocked on the railing. 
He'll throw a bucket of coal at you again down 
the long flight of steps if you yell at him like 
you did one day. 

There's a lot of people on the red iron 
bridge, probably watching the black-bass and 
pike rising to feast on the first clouds of May- 
flies as they skim the surface of the river. 

123 



THE LONG AGO 

Charlie Hopkins' candy store still stands 
solitary and strange on the bridge, built on tall, 
gaunt skeleton-like piles in the middle of the 
river. Some folks said he built it there so he 
wouldn't have to buy any land or pay any taxes, 
because no one owned the middle of the river, 
but maybe folks were just gossiping, and any- 
way, Charlie Hopkins was the only one who'd 
sell a penny's worth of mixed caramels, and he 
gave the biggest if not the purest licorice stick 
for a cent. There weren't any smart-Aleck 
clerks in his store. And Charlie never told on 
his good customers who bought glass-tipped 
cigarettes occasionally. He and his wife kept 
the place themselves, and lived in the rear. If 
Mr. Hopkins, thin and sharp-eyed ^nd quick of 
step, did not happen to be on duty, Mrs. Hop- 
kins, very, very large, and correspondingly 
deliberate of movement, was always filling, 
completely filling, her accustomed rocking 
chair, ready to gather in every stray penny that 
floated into the house. The odors of cooking 
and general domesticity mingled with the smell 
of years-old candy and the peculiar fragrance 
of the soda-fountain, to make an atmosphere 

124 



THE LITTLE OLD TOWN 

totally unlike that of any other store in town 
and that will never be forgotten. 

Barney, Barney! Hold your horses, please 
do, Barney ! Here comes the band, right down 
the middle of the street, dirt and mud and all, 
playing the same old march : "Um-dum-de um 
dum dum — um-diddy — um — dum — dum!" We 
know almost everybody in it, don't we — only 
they all look so different in their uniforms, glor- 
ified entirely away from barber-chairs and 
calico-counters and prescription-cases and 
shoemaker's benches. You feel that you just 
can't ever let Charlie demean himself again by 
cutting your hair, after you see him in the glory 
of his band regalia and hear him sending forth 
the clarion blasts of his B-flat cornet. It mat- 
tered nothing that the cornets were outscreech- 
ing the trombone, that the "woof, woof, woof, 
woof," of the bass horn drowned the cornet, 
that the screech of the piccolo wasn't in quite 
the same key as the flutes or that the bass-drum 
and cymbals crashed the whole band into ob- 
livion and fairly made the nearby buildings 
tremble and sent every horse-owner on the 
street to the head of his wild-eyed, snorting, 

125 



THE LONG AGO 

struggling steed. It was the band — our home 
band — playing the very tune that won for them 
first prize at the County Fair — our friends and 
neighbors marching erect and splendid in its 
ranks — and he would be an ingrate indeed who 
takes thought of such non-essentials as keys 
and modulations and close harmonies and 
technique, and who is not thrilled and pride- 
filled when those gorgeous lines come sweeping 
down the street and the air is filled with the 
noble strains of that matchless ''Um-dum-de 
um dum dum — um diddy um dum dum ! . . . 



It hasn't changed at all, the Little Old Town. 
It's all here, just the same as ever. 

There was time to live, then-^tim.e to live 
and love and labor — time to make friends and 
be a friend — time to catch the lilt of the 
meadow-lark and the fragrance of the lilac and 
the gleam of the hollyhocks against the brick 
wall, and to know the warmth of a neighbor's 
greeting. 

It's the self-same Little Old Town today 
that it was in the long ago. 

We need only come back to it! 



126 





School 
Days 

COME, little boy, wake up! School begins 
today. 

Strange, isn't it, that the eyes which were 
so wide open before daylight on circus day, and 
the little legs which were scrambling around 
in the garden in the gray dawn after worms for 
that trip to the trout stream, are this morning 
so tightly closed and so wonderfully still at 
almost 8 o'clock. . . . But — school again! 

It's hard luck, isn't it, little fellow? 

Same old stuffy room ; teacher watching all 
the time ; no chance to shy paper wads ; no talk- 
ing to the other fellows, even in a whisper, with- 
out penalty ; the same old stupid grammars, the 
same perplexing arithmetics, the same uninter- 
esting geographies. 

Caged through the best hours of the day! 
Yes, caged as rebelliously and as hopelessly as 
is the wild creature behind its steel bars. 

Of what avail the sunlight, the soft air, the 
stream-song and the noisy chatter of the squir- 
rels that come floating in through the open 



127 



THE LONG AGO 

windows? They are all far out of reach, and 
only tantalize. 

To be sure, dearie, there will come the 4 
o'clock hour, in the same old way. There will 
be the same old feeling of freedom, of bound- 
ing joy, of carelessness when "school is out." 
The unrestrainable shout will echo across the 
valley as of old, but all these last will be tem- 
pered by the thought that tomorrow — the 
choicest part of each tomorrowi — must be spent 
within the cage again. 

But never mind, little lover! 

Some day you will pass through these school- 
day trials and joys again — in memory. 

You will look back upon them through tear- 
prisms that will make them glow crimson-bright 
and glorious. 

And the world-tired heart of you will cry 
out in ineffable longing to go back to the boy- 
hood days, throw open the door of their school- 
time cage and enter into it again as one enters 
into the realm of an immeasurable happiness. 

So wake up, dearie! Come, now, don't 
make mother call you again! 

School begins today — and there are so few 
school days in life ! 

128 







Autumnal Activities 

THERE were three recognized uses for 
leaves in the Autumn — first, to be banked 
by the wind along fences or sidewalk edges and 
provide kicking-ground for exuberant young- 
sters returning home from school ; second, to be 
packed around the foundations of the house as 
a measure for interior comfort in winter; and, 
third, to be pressed between the pages of the 
big Bible and kept for ornamental purposes 
until they crumbled and had to be thrown away. 
This last-named use was always questioned by 
every red-blooded boy, and more tolerated than 
accepted — a concession to the women of earth, 
from little sister with her bright-hued wreath 



129 



THE LONG AGO 

to mother and grandmother with their book of 
pressed leaves. 

Even for purposes of comfort their use was 
more or less secondary — granted because the 
banking-up process was a man's job and an 
out-door enterprise. Then, too, it was a lot of 
fun to rake the big yard and get the fallen 
leaves into one or two huge piles; and wheel- 
barrow them to the edge of the house where 
old Spencer had driven the wooden pegs that 
held the boards ready to receive the leaves. 
Load after load was dumped into the trough- 
like arrangement and stamped down tight and 
hard by old Tom's huge feet and little Willie's 
eager but ineffective ones — and then the top 
board was fastened down, and never a cold 
winter wind could find its way under the floors 
with such a protective bulwark around the 
house. . . . And in the spring the boards 
had to be taken down — and countless bleached 
bugs fairly oozed out into the spring sunlight — 
and the snow-wet soggy leaves were raked out 
and burned, and the smoke was so thick and 
heavy that it hardly got out of the yard. 

But the real use of leaves — their only legiti- 

130 



AUTUMNAL ACTIVITIES 

mate function in the Autumn, according to all 
accepted boy-law — was for kicking purposes. 

Plunging through banks of dry leaves along 
the edge of the sidewalk — knee-deep sometimes 
— scattering them in all directions, even about 
our heads — there was such a racket that we 
could scarcely hear each other's shouts of glee. 
And we'd run through them only to dive ex- 
hausted into some huge pile of them, rolling 
and kicking and hollering until some kid came 
along and chucked an armful, dirt and all, 
plumb into our face ! This was the signal for a 
battle of leaves — and perhaps there would have 
been fewer tardy-marks, teacher, if there had 
been fewer autumn leaves along the route . . . 
Perhaps ! 

There were influences that tempered the 
joys of leaf-kicking — some "meanie" was al- 
ways readj^ to hide a big rock, or other disagree- 
able foreign substance, under a particularly 
inviting bunch of leaves — then watch and giggle 
at your discomfiture when you came innocently 
ploughing along! 

What a riot of wonderful color they made 
just after the first frosts had turned their green 

181 



THE LONG AGO 

to red and gold and brown! As a boy I dis- 
dained so weak a thing as noticing the color- 
ing on Big Hill — but now, in the long-after 
years, I realize that its vivid Autumn garment 
was indestructibly fixed in my memory and has 
lived — saved for me until I could look back 
through Time's long glass and understand and 
love that glorious picture. Not even the brush 
of a Barbizon master could tell the story of Big 
Hill, three miles up the river from Main Street 
bridge, gleaming in the hues that Jack Frost 
mixed, beneath the blue-gold dome of a cloud- 
less sky — for it could not paint the chatter of 
the squirrel, or the glint of the bursting bitter- 
sweet berry, or the call of the crow, or the crisp 
of the air, or the joy of life that only boyhood 
knows ! 



Many wonderful things happened at grand- 
pa's in the autumn. 

One day when you were hanging around the 
kitchen after school for no special reason and 
several very good ones, grandpa came to the 
door and told Bridget, the house-woman, to 
open the little west window in the potato-cellar 
and hook it back. 

182 



AUTUMNAL ACTIVITIES 

Your plans for another sortie into the cookie- 
pantry were temporarily abandoned as you 
clattered out into the crisp afternoon air to see 
what was going on. 

A little old broad-faced sun-bronzed farmer 
had backed-up a big green box-wagon against 
the board sidewalk just opposite the west win- 
dow in the potato-cellar. 

The wagon was full of potatoes — fine, sound 
Early Rose, you recollect — and the wagon-box 
was so full that some of them rolled into the 
street when old Pete backed his wagon ki-plunk 
against the sidewalk and hollered "whoa, 
there!" to his horses. 

Then a chute was fixed on the back of the 
wagon, its other end poking through that used- 
once-a-year little west window in the potato- 
cellar. The back-board of the wagon was 
knocked and pried and lifted up — and away 
rolled the potatoes along the chute and into the 
cellar. 

The whole house re-echoed with the bump 
— br-r-r-r-ump — the hollow, resonant, deep 
rumble of rolling potatoes as old Pete shoveled 
bushel after bushel into the chute while grandpa 

133 



THE LONG AGO 

stood on the sidewalk and kept an eye on the 
proceedings. And when the last half-dozen 
potatoes had been scraped noisily into the cellar 
depths he counted out some gold-pieces and 
some silver into old Pete's knotty hand — and 
another important autumn event had become 
history. 

Then grandpa came marching into the 
kitchen with three or four potatoes in his hand : 

"There, Mrs. Van, the cellar's full and 
they're running pretty much all like these." 

'Well, they seem all right, Mr. Van, and if 
they're as good as the lot we had last year that's 
all I ask." 

And there they were — bushels of them — 
bought by contract and barter and bargaining 
— a winter's supply laid-in all at one time — 
and you surely remember how they used to be- 
gin to sprout after a while and send up little 
white shoots until Bridget and little Annie went 
down cellar one day and ''sprouted" the whole 
lot. 

Dear old Early Rose! Do they grow now, 
I wonder? Seems to me we just order 25-cents 
worth of ''potatoes" — any kind — just "spuds," 
as the grocer writes it on his bill. 

134 



AUTUMNAL ACTIVITIES 

Of course, they're all right — as "spuds" go 
— but you can't get any real baked potatoes 
nowadays . . . You can? . . . Oh, but 
you never had one of grandma's baked Early 
Rose — the ground doesn't grow 'em — and the 
ovens don't bake 'em — unh ! — unh ! 

There was something very substantial in the 
sound of those potatoes rolling along the chute 
into the cellar. ... It was the sound of 
plenty — made a fellow feel sort of safe. . . . 
Perhaps it's just as good to let the grocer keep 
them in his cellar, and get them in sacks-full as 
we need them . . . But doesn't it look funny 
to see a big husky delivery-man come stomping 
in with a little paper sack of "spuds" — espe- 
cially to a fellow who has ever watched old 
Pete and his scoop-shovel and who has heard 
that deep, hollow, resonant rumble of the 
wagon-load of Early Rose rolling into the dark, 
cold cellar! 



Did your folks have a meat-house — stored 
full of pork and beef every autumn? ... Of 
course they did! Only it seems so far away, 
looking backward from this day of 50-cent 



135 



THE LONG AGO 

bacon which was a sort of by-product in grand- 
father's time, that I thought maybe I dreamed 
it or read it somewhere. 

Our meat-house was the best-built and 
neatest affair on the place except the main 
house. It was between the big barn and the 
end of the kitchen wing. Great iron hooks 
hung from huge rafters overhead with smaller 
bracket hooks on all walls. A chopping block 
stood in one corner — same as you see now in 
the meat markets, only its legs were more wob- 
bly and less fancy. 

I don't remember just how many hogs and 
young pigs and beeves grandfather bought 
every year — but I know the meat-house was as 
large as a small cottage, and it was chuck full 
of hams and hind-quarters and sides and spare- 
ribs and every other edible pait — suspended 
from the big hooks or laid on the long tables. 

When the "smoking" began, hams, shoul- 
ders, bacon and sausage were all hung up in 
the smoke-house on the far side of the barn — 
and the crisp autumn air was redolent of com- 
bined wood-and-pig smoke wafting leisurely 
out of the little top windows of the smoke-house 

136 



AUTUMNAL ACTIVITIES 

. . . (Well, just because you never had any 
smoked sausage, you needn't think it wasn't 
smoked. We always had it — long skins of it — 
and you could grab a hunk of it in one grimy 
hand and a soda cracker in the other and sneak 
out of the back gate and just evaporate into 
Nowhere without ever remembering that the 
kitchen wood-box was nearly empty.) Of 
course, grandfather had other sausage — and it 
was sausage! Real pork sausage — little pig 
sausage like Uncle Milo still makes on his Wis- 
consin farm — with plenty of good fragrant sage 
in it (can't you just smell it this minute!) — and 
not the all-sorts, a-little-of-everything-that-we- 
can't-use-elsewhere kind that they offer us now- 
adays. 

All through the winter when grandmother 
called for a roast, or a steak, or chops, or any- 
thing else, grandfather would wind his muffler 
around his neck (it was colder'n blazes in the 
meat-house!) and go out and cut just the exact 
piece she wanted ... If you happened to 
see him start before grandmother caught sight 
of you, you'd find it convenient to be elsewhere 
without delay, because if she saw you she'd say, 

137 



THE LONG AGO 

"Willie, go help your grandfather bring in the 
meat," and then you'd have to stand around in 
the cold till your knuckles and nose got blue. 
Gee whiz ! but that meat-house was cold! The 
mere memory of it now makes me feel as if I 
haven't been warm through-and-through since 
I last stood numb and shivering in that little 
old meat-house. 



After the cutting and trimming were done, 
and the meat was stored away, grandmother 
and Bridget tackled the soap. The scraps of 
fat left over from the meat cutting were added 
to a collection previously made and the whole 
was dumped into a huge iron soap kettle. Then 
more water was poured on the ash barrel, and 
the lye started moving again. There was al- 
ways a barrel of wood-ashesi — maple was best 
but oak was good — the cleaner the ashes the 
better the lye — with water poured on it that 
eventually trickled through the ashes and came 
out of the bottom. This lye and fat were mixed 
in the big kettle and boiled until it was thick, 
when it was put into its own special barrel ready 
for use. This was the famous "soft soap" of 

138 



AUTUMNAL ACTIVITIES 

the long ago— and no one who knew its ingred- 
ients ever doubted that the kitchen table-tops 
and the floor were sure-enough clean after 
Bridget finished scrubbing them. The hard 
soap had to have salt in it to stiffen it— spread 
on boards and dried and cut into square chunks 
. . . and smell? Glory be! Wasn't it some- 
thing awful! But grandmother and Bridget 
never seemed to mind it! 

Folks nowadays say: "What's the use of 
making soap when you can buy it so cheap?" 
. . . Well, perhaps they're right. But some- 
how— tonight— here by the open fire— with the 
first chill of the autunm outside— I can't help 
wishing I could see the old meat-house tomor- 
row with its suspended hams and shoulders and 
sides and spare-ribs and sausage links, and the 
fumes coming out of the smoke-house — yes, and 
even smell the soap brewing out in the back 
yard. 

And best of all, I wish I had a chunk of 
smoked sausage in one hand and a soda cracker 
in the other, and was sneaking out of the back 
gate down to the river forgetting the empty 
wood-box in the kitchen. ... So many un- 



139 



THE LONG AGO 

filled wood-boxes through the years and such 
long time empty — ever calling, calling me back 
just as my hand touches the latch of the dream- 
gate that swings outward. 



140 




WIEN Farmer Griswold planted his corn he 
selected certain kernels with special care, 
buried them just as carefully in that part of his 
field that seemed to have the richest and best 
soil, hoed that row with particular zeal and 
thoroughness, and brought its stalks to a splen- 
did maturity that distinguished them from all 
their fellows in the broad sun-warmed acres. 
So, also, with his potatoes, and his beets and 
his tobacco. He watched his growing wheat 
and oats and barley with trained and discern- 
ing eye, marking spots where the grain grew 
thickest and tallest and the heads were the 
longest and plumpest. Each pumpkin's growth 
was noted, and the squash were under careful 
and constant inspection. Likewise he sorted 
out certain favored hogs and penned them away 
from the others, bestowing upon them inordi- 
nate partiality in the matter of good feed and 

141 



THE LONG AGO 

plenty of it. Nor could the rank and file of the 
dairy herd and the horses in the big barn under- 
stand why some of its members received such 
special and unremitting care from the Hired 
Man. 

When Aunt Em made pickles and put up 
peaches and green gages, certain jars that were 
filled the neatest with baby cucumbers all of a 
size and perfectly matched were set up on a 
special shelf in the pantry under a special label. 

Grandmother Pease — she really wasn't any- 
body's grandmother, but she ought to have been 
because Nature made her just what a grand- 
mother should be, so everyone called her grand- 
mother — wove the most beautiful rag rugs and 
pieced the most gorgeous silk bedspreads and 
knitted the warmest and most intricate shoul- 
der-throws and coverlets which she gave away 
generously among her friends. But always 
there was one piece upon which she was work- 
ing with special devotion — it progressed slowly 
because she worked on it only when she felt 
strongest or had time to give it undivided atten- 
tion. It took her almost a year to finish this 
particular article — but what a masterpiece it 

142 



THE COUNTY FAIR 

was when she finally removed it from its pro- 
tective sheet in which she had kept it rolled and 
secreted and displayed it for the approval of 
the family. 

Mr. Wegeman, cigar-maker, rolling his 
hand-made cigars in their hollowed-out com- 
partments in the hardwood board before him, 
day by day set aside certain ones that came out 
of the mould most perfectly shaped and of finest 
and most uniform color. Later he formed them 
tenderly into fans and ovals and stars and cres- 
cents and circles and houses and various other 
artistic shapes, beneath a great glass case with 
his name inside in red and blue and gold letters. 
Then he closed its glass cover, locked it, and 
put it out of sight for a time. 

Woodard & Stone, the big candy and 
cracker manufacturers, had a glass case, too. 
It had their name written in flaming letters of 
real red cinnamon drops, and checker-boards 
of real caramels, and a cracker menagerie of 
every wild animal known to man — all guarded 
by real chocolate nigger-babies and real candy 
men. They, too, built it up throughout the year 
of the choicest product of their fairyland fac- 

143 



THE LONG AGO 

tory, closed its glass lid, locked it, and set it 
away for a while. 

And so in the broad fields and gardens of 
the country and the busy shops of the Little 
Old Town, things laboriously brought-forth 
from the soil and things hand-fashioned lov- 
ingly, were sorted-out and selected, cast aside 
and brought-back, re-sorted and re-selected, 
weighed and balanced and compared, chosen 
and rejected — all in a year-long preparation 
for that one supreme annual event which more 
than all others welded the dear people of the 
valley into one great happy family. 

What heartsomeness and love and conse- 
crated labor went to make up the County Fair! 
Perhaps you thought it was only a vast collec- 
tion of corn and wheat and potatoes and knitted 
coverlets and pickles and cigars and candy and 
a hundred other things, assembled annually In 
one spot so that three-shell men and flag-sellers 
and bus-drivers and all-sorts could congregate 
to filch money from careless simple folk, or give 
an extra day's vacation from school. That is 
not at all what the County Fair stood for, not 
what it reflected. Those fat hogs and sleek 

144 



THE COUNTY FAIR 

cattle and beautiful horses with their blue-rib- 
bon prizes, those towering grain-shocks and 
mammoth pumpkins, those lace doilies and 
pyramids of preserves, the squeaky grand-stand 
at the race-track where sleek trotters and long- 
limbed running horses brought the cheering 
crowds to their feet amid fluttering handker- 
chiefs and the blare of the brass band — all these 
were only phenomena. The County Fair was 
an institution — a living, throbbing, pulsating 
human expression — not born and dying in two 
brief weeks, but loved and worked-for every 
day of every year, living daily in the hearts of 
those who filled its stalls and counters with the 
fatness of the land, just as it lives on in the 
loving memory of everyone who once strolled 
among its glories and caught the real meaning 
of the County Fair behind its piled-up displays. 



The fair-grounds were far from town, and 
the road was long and dusty. The 25-cent piece 
given you for the occasion together with the 
odd pennies heroically saved for it, seemed so 
inadequate ! But just as you were about to go 
out of the door, and had resigned yourself to 



145 



THE LONG AGO 

make the best of it with such meager allowance, 
grandfather called you back into the office : 

"Going to the fair, Billy?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"How much money have you got?" 

A freckled hand delved into various pockets, 
assembled an assortment of coins, and held 
them palm-up for grandfather to count. 

"That's only 33 cents, Billy. Can you get 
along with that?" 

"Uh-huh — I guess so, gran'pa." 

A hand on your curly head (its kindly touch 
lingers through all the long years!) and the 
other hand fumbling in the vest pocket on the 
right side — a breathless moment of utter vacuum 
so fearful was its expectancy — and then a big 
half-dollar dropped silently into the 33-cent 
pile. A whole half-dollar! It was bej^ond im- 
mediate comprehension. But another look and 
a tightening of the little fist around its huge rim 
was confirmation indisputable — two boy-arms 
thrown about broadcloth shoulders, a tight hug 
and a kiss on a soft wrinkled cheek — and a dash 
for the door that clicked shut simultaneously 
with a shout: "Hey, fellers, look what I got!" 

146 



THE COUNTY FAIR 

Down the street there came a long open 'bus 
— carpet-covered seats along each side and a 
canvas top gorgeously fringed. It was Barney's 
summer 'bus — and Barney's own voice sounded 
its clarion invitation to the town : "All aboard 
for the fair grounds! First load going right 
out!" 

Almost before its echoes had died away, the 
"first load" was crowded into the 'bus, every 
inch of space made available by Barney's firm : 
"Move up a little in front please and let this 
lady in. . . . Right this way, Mr. Selick, 
plenty of room. . . . Move up a little more, 
please . . . That's it, thank you . . . All 
filled now, I guess . . . Here we go . . . 
Whoa, wait a minute. Gotta take Mis' Clark 
in — always wait for the school-marm, and al- 
ways room for one more." 

The fares were collected, and Barney pre- 
pared to swing himself into place on the driver's 
seat. But a new problem awaited him. Three 
boys were there, and they began bargaining 
immediately for half-fare rides. 

"Got no room, boys, all full." 

"Aw, Barney, c'm-mon, let us ride on the 
steps fer ten cents." 

147 



THE LONG AGO 

"And fall off and get hurt and me having to 
tell your grandfather, eh?" 

"Ugh-ugh, Barney, we won't fall, honest we 
won't. Aw Barney, we just gotta go on th' first 
load." 

"Climb on then, and be quick about it. . . . 
That's all right, keep your money." 

And so the first load, packed full with the 
springs touching, and with three bobbing, 
ecstatic youngsters struggling for foothold on 
the steps and clinging firmly to the iron railing 
and each other, goes rumbling through town, 
the envy of everyone who missed a place in it 
and had to wait for the next load. Countless 
times along that dusty road Barney shook his 
head at imploring individuals and groups along 
the roadside and sung out: "Nope, can't take 
another one. Full up. Springs hitting now. 
Better sit down under that tree and wait. Be 
another 'bus along in a minute." A crack of 
his long whip over the heads of his four horses, 
(four horses!) and away we go over the ruts 
and through the dust-clouds, while the 'bus 
sings merrily with the voices of friends and 
neighbors dusty and hot and happy 

148 



THE COUNTY FAIR 

We stand together in the early twilight, dear 
Child of my Life-long Dream, upon the broad 
promenade of the wonderful Court of the Kings. 
The full moon gleams yellow-white in the deep 
purple sky, mirrored in the placid waters of the 
wide lagoon. Stately columns of great white pal- 
aces are silhouetted against the starry heavens; 
the dome of the Administration Building flares 
high into the night with its thousand electric 
globes, while other thousands glow like fireflies 
throughout the acres of beautiful buildings 
housing exhibits of all the world. Vast gardens 
exhale their incomparable perfume upon the 
air, and through the heavy fragrance the notes 
of a mocking-bird ring-out in a glorious burst 
of melody as if all the birds of the fields were 
here foregathered to offer each his song in lov- 
ing competition. 

It is all very wonderful, to stand here in the 
midst of its indescribable glory, feeling the 
gentle pressure of your shoulder, your hand 
seeking mine in the silence — here in this favored 
place to which the wide world has sent its 
choicest fashionings, the most perfect of its 
handiwork. 



149 



THE LONG AGO 

But the pressure of your child-fingers some- 
how blurs the splendor of this place — the flam- 
ing electric dome becomes only a smoky torch 
swaying unsteadily beside a popcorn-and-lem- 
onade stand — the stately palaces change to 
loose canvas tents and low wooden sheds — ^the 
rich harmonies of the orchestra merge into the 
crude grind of a merry-go-'round's shrill organ 
— and all the myriad wonders of Today's beau- 
tiful World's Fair hark back to their simple 
brother of the long ago whose prize was not the 
commerce of a world, but just the blue ribbon 
of loving rivalry among simple folk rejoicing 
in the co-operation of hand and heart. 

So tonight we go backwards and upwards, 
dear child of mine, to the County Fair — back- 
wards to its smoky torches and canvas tents and 
grinding organs — but upwards and onward to 
the spirit of simple loving-kindness and human 
helpfulness that lifted it above dingy tents and 
glorified it into a throbbing, pulsating, enduring 
Expression of Life. 



150 




Getting in 
the Wood 



AN autumnal event of importance, second 
only to the filling of the meat-house, was 
the purchase and sawing of the wood. 

Three sizes, remember — the 4-foot lengths 
for the long, low stove in the big room, 12-inch 
"chunks" for the oval sheet-iron stove in the 
parlor, and the fine-split 18-inch lengths for the 
kitchen. (Yes, they burned wood in the kitchen 
— not only wood, but oak and maple and hick- 
ory — the kind you buy by the carat nowadays!) 

And what a fire it made ! Two sticks of the 
long wood in the stove in the big room, and 
the damper open, and you'd have to raise the 
windows inside of fifteen minutes no matter 
how low the thermometer registered outside. 
In the kitchen grandmother did all her cooking 
with a wood fire — using the ashes for the lye 
barrel — and the feasts that came steaming from 
her famous oven have never been equalled on 
any gas-range ever made. (Gas-range! how 
grandmother would have sniffed in scorn at 

151 



THE LONG AGO 

such a suggestion!) Even coal was only fit for 
the base burner in the family sitting-room- — and 
that must be anthracite, or "hard" coal, the kind 
that comes in sacks nowadays at about the same 
price as butter and eggs. And even the wood 
had to be split just so and be "clear" and right, 
or grandmother would scold grandfather for 
not wearing his near-seeing specs when he 
bought it. "Guess they fooled you on that load, 
Mr. Van," she'd say. "It isn't like the last we 
had." 

Don't you remember how you were hanging 
around the kitchen one Saturday morning kind- 
a waiting for something to come within reach, 
and grandfather's cane came tap-tapping down 
the long hall, and he pushed open the kitchen 
door and stood there, just inside the door, until 
the kettle started boiling over and making such 
a noise. And then he announced that he thought 
he better go out and see if there was any wood 
in market. (As if there weren't fifty farmers 
lined up there almost before daylight!) It was 
about nine o'clock and the sun had had a chance 
to warm things up a bit — so grandmother 
wrapped him up in his knitted muffler and away 

152 



GETTING IN THE WOOD 

he went beneath his shiny silk hat. And be- 
cause you stood around and looked wistfully up 
at him, he finally turned back, just before he 
reached the big front door and said: ''Want 
to go along, Billie?" Of course you went, be- 
cause there were all kinds of shops on the way 
up town to the wood market and grandfather 
always had an extra nickle for such occasions. 
Can't you just see that wood-market now, 
as it used to be in the Long Ago — with its big 
platform scales — and its wagons of accurately- 
piled cord-wood marked on the end of some 
stick with the white chalk-mark of the official 
"inspector" and measurer-^and the farmers all 
bundled-up and tied-around with various cold- 
dispelling devices and big mitts and fur caps? 
So far as you could tell then (or now, either, 
I'll wager!) every load was exactly like every 
other load — but not so to grandfather, for he 
would scrutinize them all, sound them with his 
stick, barter and dicker and look out for knots 
— and then make the rounds again and do it all 
over before finally making his selection — and I 
distinctly remember feeling that the wood left 
in market after grandfather had made his selec- 
tion wasn't worth hauling away! 

153 



THE LONG AGO 

Load after load was driven up to the high 
back-yard fence and its sticks heaved into the 
yard and piled in perfect order — and it made 
a goodly and formidable showing when Old 
Pete, the wood-sawyer, finally arrived on the 
scene. The time of wood-buying was deter- 
mined partly by Pete's engagements — he went 
first to the Perkinses and next to the Williamses 
and so on in rotation as he had done for years, 
his entire winter being "engaged" far ahead. 
It did not seem possible, to boyish mind, that 
one man could ever get all that wood sawed and 
split, even if he was a great giant Norseman 
with the finest buck-saw in the country. 

But each year Old Pete's prowess seemed 
to increase — and day after day the ceaseless 
music of his saw sounded across the crisp air 
— and the measured strokes of his axe struck a 
clarion note — until finally the yard showed only 
chips and saw-dust where that vast wood-pile 
had been — and the big barn was piled full to 
the rafters — the kitchen wood and chunks on 
one side, the big wood on the other. 

Then Pete would come in and announce 
that the job was done — and grandfather would 

154 



GETTING IN THE WOOD 

bundle-up and go out for a final inspection. 
Pete removed the pad from his leg (you re- 
member the carpet he wore on his left knee — 
the one that held the stick in place in the buck 
when he was sawing) and together they went 
into the barn — and talked it all over — and Pete 
said it was harder wood than last year's and 
more knots in it and ought to be worth two 
shillings more than contract price — and grand- 
father finally allowed the excess — and Old Pete 
came in and got his money (in gold and silver) 
and a bowl of coft'ee and some bread — and went 
his way to the Joneses or some other folks. 

And you, young man — you surely hated to 
see that great Viking go — for he had told you 
many a wonderful tale at the noon hour as he 
munched his thick sandwiches — and no one 
could look at his massive head and huge shoul- 
ders and great beard and hair and doubt that 
his forebears had done all that he credited to 
them. 

Somehow, Old Pete seemed more real than 
most men you knew — except grandfather, of 
course. There was something unexplainable in 
the man and his work that rang true — some- 

155 



THE LONG AGO 

thing that was so wholesome and sound. He 
wasn't like old Hawkins, the grocer — he'd as 
lief give you a rotten apple as not if he could 
smuggle it into the bag without you seeing him ; 
and Kline the candy-man sometimes sold you 
old hard stuff mixed with the fresh. But Old 
Pete here^ — he just worked honest and steady 
— out in the open — at a fixed wage — and h^ did 
an honest job and was proud of it even if it 
was only sawing wood. He worked faithfully 
until it was done, and then he got a good word 
and a bowl of coffee and his wages in gold and 
silver — and Vv^ent his way rejoicing, leaving be- 
hind him the glory of labor well performed 
blending with the refreshing fragrance of new- 
cut logs that sifted through the cracks of the 
old barn. 



156 



'S ii'^MK- 



iM"^^-"'^'^' 



#^ll The 



-:^^i4a|35^^j£. bugar 

Barrels 






''l '-^- 



DO you remember the three barrels of sugar 
in the dark place under the stairs — or 
were they in the big pantry just off the kitchen? 

Well, anyway, there were three, you recol- 
lect — two of white and one of brown. 

Always the brown sugar — and each Autumn 
the same colloquy: 

"Mr. Van, don't you think we can get along 
without the brown sugar this year?" 

''Now, Mrs. Van, you've got to have a little 
brown sugar in the house — and it comes cheaper 
by the barrel." 

'Tes, so it does, Mr. Van . . . We can 
use it, I suppose, in something . . . And we 
always have had it, and . . . Well, do as 
you think best." 

White sugar was good when you had some- 
thing to go with it. 

But brown sugar stood alone — sticky, heavy, 
crumbly lumps that held together until a fellow 

157 



THE LONG AGO 

could tip back his head and drop one of the 
chunks in his mouth. 

And after school grandmother could be per- 
suaded to cut a full-size slice of bread (thick) 
and spread it with butter (thick) and you'd 
start away with it (quick) — just nibbling at one 
edge, not really biting — and you'd sneak into 
the dark place under the stairs (or into the 
pantry) — and reach deep down into the white 
sugar barrel — and grab a handful — and sprin- 
kle it over the bread-and-butter — and shake 
back into the barrel all that didn't stick to the 
butter — and then do it all over again — and pat 
it down hard — and then sprinkle just a little bit 
more on hurriedly, (because grandfather's cane 
could be heard tapping down the_ hall) — and 
then you emerged with dignity, but with no un- 
necessary commotion — and just faded away 
into the Outer World so softly, so gently, so 
contentedly! . . . 

(Have you tried any bread-and-butter-and- 
sugar recently? Did it taste the same as it used 
to? . . . 

No? . . . Perhaps you broke it into pieces 

158 



THE SUGAR BARRELS 

instead of beginning at one side and eating 
straight through? 

Or maybe you got hold of the cooking but- 
ter .. . Or did you try it with baker's 
bread? . . . 

No? . . . Well, why didn't it taste the 
same?) 



159 




"Only a strong man can go back 
over the old road to the beginning 
potnt. " 




-J ^—J. 

The Old Bell 



GRANDFATHER VAN ALSTYNE kept a 
tavern. It was called the Exchange Hotel, 
located on one of the four main business cor- 
ners of the town, directly across from the post- 
office and the bank. And it was more than a 
hotel — the Commercial House filled that place 
— it was a home known far and wide for the 
indescribable but never-to-be-forgotten excel- 
lence of its cuisine, the generosity of its por- 
tions, the warmth and genuineness of its hospi- 
tality and the unique personality of its host. 

Grandmother furnished the cuisine, the 
generosity of its portions, and the unchanging 
hospitality — in a word, she made the home. It 
will be noted that grandmother was a consid- 
erable factor in the Exchange Hotel — a factor 
which began working about 4:30 or 5 o'clock 

161 



THE LONG AGO 

every morning — in summer when the first faint 
streaks of daylight showed in the east, and in 
winter when her own home-made sperm candles 
lighted her labors — and continued without rest 
until 9:30 or 10 o'clock at night. She was 
seldom seen in the front part of the house — an 
occasional visit to the "office" if she knew Mr. 
Van was there alone, once in a while a few 
moments in the "parlor," when Will Hoard or 
Frank Spearman or some other favorite guest 
had arrived. Her long hours were spent in her 
own domain — the kitchen and dining-room, 
and at night in the back sitting-room by the big 
base-burner or at the round red-cloth-covered 
table which held the large black Bible. 

Grandfather Van supplied the unique per- 
sonality — a compelling influence in the institu- 
tion, indeed. It is related, upon undoubted 
authority (this tale with others of like quality 
is almost a legend in the Little Old Town, and 
thereabouts) that a traveling man, a stranger, 
once applied for lodging and demanded to be 
shown the bed he was to occupy. Grandfather, 
as his custom was, escorted him upstairs and 
opened-up the bedroom. The stranger immed- 

162 



THE OLD BELL 

iately attacked the bed, pulled down its sheets 
and comforts, examined it minutely and finally 
smelled of its sheets from headboard to foot. 
Grandfather watched the performance in si- 
lence. When the stranger announced that 
apparently the bed was clean and he'd take the 
room, grandfather requested him to take off 
his clothes, right then and there. And when 
the thoroughly surprised stranger demanded 
the reason for the unusual request, grandfather 
said he wished to see whether the man was 
clean enough to be worthy of the bed! It is 
further related that the stranger slept elsewhere 
that night! 

In the hallway that led to the dining-room 
there stood a hat-rack — a long wooden affair 
with two shelves, you remember the kind. At 
one end, on the lower shelf, there was a large 
brass dinner-bell, with a wooden handle. It 
was always in that one place — as certain to be 
just exactly there as the sun was to rise. The 
penalty for its displacement was too well under- 
stood to be incurred. 

Every day of every year for a half-century 
or more, exactly at 12 o'clock noon, grand- 

163 



THE LONG AGO 

mother appeared at the door of the office and 
told Mr. Van dinner was ready, and went 
quickly back to her post. Every day of every 
year, for a half-century, at that hour. Grand- 
father Van took the old bell to the front door 
of the Exchange Hotel and swung it in a semi- 
circle, from shoulder to knee and shoulder, 
while its heavy clapper struck a clarion note 
that echoed and re-echoed up and down the 
streets of the village. 

When the sound of that old brass bell 
reached the community, its message could not 
fail to be understood. If ever a bell talked, 
that bell did. And if ever a people could in- 
terpret the voice of a voiceless mould of brass, 
that people could. As plain as the printed 
words on this page, it said : "Dinner is ready, 
dinner is ready — at the hotel. Exchange Hotel 
— dinner is ready, a good dinner, too — the best 
for the price, in the state, in the state — dinner 
is ready, dinner is ready — dinner is read^ — . . . 
dinner is . . . dinner . . . din . . . di 
d '" 

• • • KA • • • • 

And when the old bell was put back in its 
place on the hat-rack, it invariably gave a last 

164 



THE OLD BELL 

muffled wood-deadened dangle of satisfaction 
as it settled to rest that clearly spoke its knowl- 
edge of a job well and thoroughly done. If 
benighted mortals failed to respond, it was their 
loss — of a good meal; but its duty had been 
performed. 

The note of that old bell was much more 
than the sound of iron clapper upon tinkling 
brass. It was a Voice — the voice of an institu- 
tion that was as much a part of the life of the 
village as was the town clock or the fire engine 
bell or the town band or the tolling of the 
church bell. Its message was a message of Life 
— of two lives moving on and on together 
through the struggling years, of two loves 
blending graciously from the morning of youth 
through the high noon of maturity and into the 
night of age — a message of daily duty and un- 
remitting toil, of ministry and of devotion — of 
the upbuilding of an institution making for it- 
self a worth-while place in the world. The 
tones of that bell were never uncertain, its 
message fwas never indefinite. Always, until 
the hands of its master-ringer were stilled upon 
his white coverlet, it spoke with authority, as 

165 



THE LONG AGO 

one who knows that he knows and bids the 
whole world test the quality of his work. 

And those who accepted its clarion in- 
vitation through that half-century came half- 
joyfully, half-reverently, and all irespectfully. 
They came sordidly expectant of the savory 
things that grandmother's hands and helpers 
prepared — but they came more to receive the 
benediction of her sweet presence, the comfort 
of that home's matchless hospitality, and the 
refreshment of a half-hour's meeting with 
friends who chaffed and gossiped, or with the 
stranger who brought tidings and tales from 
the big world outside. 

No single item upon Memory's tablet affects 
me quite the same way as the old bell — no 
sound has carried through the years quite so 
clearly as its sound. In the boyhood time I 
thought it was my insatiable appetite that made 
me love its ringing — but in the after-years I find 
that I, too, caught its message whose interpre- 
tation was withheld from me then, but opened 
to me now. 

Occasionally — very occasionally — grand- 
father permitted me to ring the bell — and right 

166 



THE OLD BELL 

this minute I can feel the same awe I knew then 
as I marched to the front door lugging it in both 
hands — I can hear my same childish gurgle of 
joy as of possession of something long cherished 
but ever renounced. I can feel grandfather's 
presence beside me on the door-step — even the 
faint fragrance of his long broadcloth coat 
seems here — as I struggled bravely but inade- 
quately with the ponderous thing of brass and 
iron. And I can see him now, when my boy 
hands failed to send forth its wonted message, 
stoop and take the bell and start his famous 
semi-circle that made the shoemaker drop his 
awl, the postmaster lay down his glasses, and 
the traveling-man lock-up his sample room to 
seek a tin basin and the roller towel and an 
early seat at grandmother's long table. 



Downstairs in the dining-room there is a 
wonderful dinner bell that came from a palace 
in the Land of the Cherry Blossom. It has 
several gongs of varying sizes, each marvelously 
wrought to give-forth its soft but far-reaching 
cadence, and all of their tones so beautifully 
blended that when the deft fingers of our Jap- 

167 



THE LONG AGO 

anese maid touch each gong with the chamois 
ball, there floats through the house a harmony 
of sound like the far-off serenade of a fairy- 
band. No more perfectly modulated and at- 
tuned invitation to a feast could possibly be 
devised. 

But tonight, as I rose from the work-table 
in my room to answer its summons, that had 
gradually floated away into the night, I went 
to a corner in a nearby bookshelf — a corner 
almost like that in the old hat-rack in grand- 
father's hall — and reverently lifted the old 
dinner bell — yes, the self-same bell that my 
boy hands struggled with, strangely come back 
to me after all these years and cherished beyond 
any other single earthly possession of mine 
. . . gently I swung it to left and right — 
and as its clapper touched the brass with the 
old-time spirit and comradeship, and its same 
old loved tones struck strong and true upon the 
air, the great orchestras and song melodies of a 
lifetime were forgotten, the wonderful modu- 
lations and blending of the Japanese gong 
downstairs vanished in an instant, the ache of 
the long weary years dropped away — and again 

168 



THE OLD BELL 

I stood beside grandfather on the front door- 
step, my boy hand clutching the corner of his 
broadcloth coat, my little tummy rejoicing in 
anticipation of an early and adequate filling, 
my ears tingling with the reverberations of the 
old bell in those master-hands sending forth its 
clarion message of life and loVe and labor and 
a Thing Well Done. 



AFTER all, Romance and Fact are but twin 
children, hardly distinguishable one from 
the other, playing together in the clover-field 
of life. 

The story of "The Old Bell" has had so in- 
teresting a finis that it seems proper to here 
append it, changing only names that would 
identify the persons mentioned. 

Robert Spenner was the factotum around 
Grandfather Van Alstjme's place. He was com- 
bination gardener, hired man, mender of tools, 
path-clearer in winter, side-walk sweeper in 
summer and general utility man — a quaint 
character who might have stepped out of a 
Charles Dickens novel. When the Van Alstyne 
home was broken up and sold after the passing 

169 



THE LONG AGO 

of grandfather and grandmother, the bell which 
Grandfather Van had used so many years, was 
given to old Robert. 

His daughter married and went with her 
husband to their farm in Kansas, where they 
prospered abundantly. 

Subsequently, about 1879, old Robert was 
lured to the Black Hills by the gold discoveries 
there, and stopped enroute to visit his daughter 
and her husband, Mr. Prince, on their Kansas 
farm. He carried the old bell, his treasured 
keep-sake — to which Mr. Prince took a great 
fancy, and induced old Robert to leave it on 
the farm. There is has remained for 40 years, 
in daily use around the house. 

The author of THE LONG AGO and his 
mother, surviving members of the Van Alstyne 
household, lost all track of the old bell after it 
was given to Spenner, and heard nothing of 
him or the bell for nearly half a century. In 
1916, when the iirst edition of THE LONG 
AGO was published, a copy was sent to Mrs. 
Buckman, a school-girl and lifelong friend of 
the author's mother. Mrs. Buckman was then 
under the care of a trained nurse. Miss Nevin, 

170 



THE OLD BELL 

to whom she loaned a copy of the book and 
supplemented its stories with some of her own 
personal reminiscences, among them Grand- 
father Van Alstyne's custom of ringing the old 
bell. 

By one of those interesting coincidences 
with which life sometimes plays surprising 
pranks upon its children, Miss Nevin chanced 
to be the niece of Mr. Prince — and when she 
related the incident to her mother, she was told 
that the Old Bell was still in existence, and in 
daily use on the farm of Miss Nevin's uncle. 
She immediately wrote to Mr. Prince, and at 
the same time Mrs. Buckman wrote to the 
author, telling him of the strange discovery of 
the Old Bell. 

Correspondence followed between Mr. 
Prince and the author — and one glad April 
morning there was delivered to the author a 
wooden box containing the dear old bell . . . 
"Yes, the selfsame bell that my boy hands strug- 
gled with, strangely come back to me after all 
these years and cherished beyond any other 
single earthly possession of mine." 

It stands on the mantel of my private office 

171 



THE LONG AGO 

today, beside the old-time India ink portrait of 
its master-ringer of the long ago — proclaiming 
the generosity and renunciation of him who has 
loved it and used it for 40 years — keeping ever 
a'live the memory of him whose arm swung it 
daily at the front door through the half -century 
that it sent forth its message of "life and love 
and labor and a Thing Well Done" — and a 
priceless heritage to the little boy who can 
"still feel grandfather's presence on the door- 
step, the texture of his wonderful broadcloth 
coat, the precious comfort of his knees and en- 
circling arms, and the quietness and glory of 
his upright, unafraid and unselfed life." 



172 



When Day is Done 

IF the page blurs, as it may do if you were 
ever a child and if you have been tempered 
in the cruel furnace of the years, maybe the 
mists that fill the eyes will bathe the soul of 
you in their hallowed flood until the world-ache 
is soothed, and you can start up the big road 
again with some of the same wonderful exulta- 
tion that sped you onward and forward in the 
Long Ago . . . One touch of that, and the 
burden of Today, grown great in the years of 
struggle, slips from your shoulders as lightly 
as the wild-rose petal drops upon the bosom 
of the stream and floats away to the music of 
the riffles. 

Only a strong man can go back over the 
Old Road to the beginning-point — facing the 
memories that throng the path — meeting the 
surging emotions that sweep away all our care- 
fully-laid defenses — braving the grim | spectre 
that puts the white seal of age upon our heads. 



173 



THE LONG AGO 

Once more, in the cool of the late twilight, 
we'll sit with chin in hand on grandfather's 
front steps and watch the stars come out . . . 
and hear the loon calling weirdly across the 
water . . . and catch the perfume of the 
lilacs and narcissus from the garden . . . 
and gather at grandmother's knee to feel her 
soft fingers in our curls and hear her bedtime 
story. Half asleep, but ever reluctant, we will 
trudge stumblingly to the little room with its 
deep feather bed, and get into our red-flannel 
nightie. Down on our knees, with our face in 
the soft edges of the mattress and tiny hands 
uplifted, we will say our prayers, and end them 
in the same old way: "God bless father and 
mother, and grandfather and grandmother . . . 
and ev-ery-body . . . else in . . . the 
world . . . amen . . ." and feel those 
strong mother-arms lifting our sleepy form in- 
to the downy depths. 

Never until now have we known the reality 
of the boy-days, or paused to receive their hal- 
lowed touch. 

Grandfather and grandmother, and the 
garden, and the river, and the song of the robin 

174 



WHEN DAY IS DONE 

in the apple-tree, and all the myriad exper- 
iences of the boy-time, are glorified now as 
never before. In the halcyon Then they were 
but incidents of the day; in the mellowed Now 
we learn the truth of them, and catch their won- 
drous meaning. 

The flower blossoms are gleaming as color- 
ful and fragrant today as they did in the Long 
Ago. The bird-songs are as tuneful now as 
they were then. The sun is shining just as 
golden and as genial this moment as it did when 
we sat on the beams of the mill-race and felt 
on our faces the spray of tumbling waters sun- 
warmed in the air. 

We need only open our hearts and let the 
sun-shine in! 

And Youth and Age, blended and rejoicing, 
will go hand in hand along the path of life to 
its far goal bestowing upon us all the freshness 
of the dew-damp morning, all the vigor of the 
strenuous noon, and all the peace and calm 
assurance of the star-lit night. 



175 




The Yellow Rose 

WITH what strange hand does Chance, or 
Destiny, sweep the chord of Life to 
awaken its harmonies! 

When they "packed my trunk and sent me 
off to college" the Yellow Rose, all thorn-cov- 
ered, was forgotten — for in youth all our won- 
derful Yesterdays are blotted-out by the glare 
of alluring Tomorrows. 

From that long-ago day until now, and in 
wanderings far and wide, there has never come 
into my life another yellow rose-bush of its 
kind. I recall that it was a plebean, little 
esteemed even by The Garden's charitable 
mistress, and it seemed to have retreated, with 
characteristic modesty, into the oblivion which 
shrouds many extinct blossoms of the past. 

But yesterday morning, scarcely one sunset 
behind the joyous return of the Old Bell, upon 
my desk was a Yellow Rose, left by unseen 
hands. Just one full-blown blossom upon its 

177 



THE LONG AGO 

short, thorny stem, and a few tight-folded buds, 
and over-much foliage of tiny, dark-green 
leaves. In form, it was identical with that 
loved bush of Boyhood — but it seemd too won- 
derful to be real! Yet there, on the mantel, 
stood the Old Bell, and its never-forgotten tone 
was still ringing from the stroke of my knuckle 
upon its edge only a few hours ago. So, rever- 
ently and almost fearfully, I lifted the yellow 
blossom to my face — and instantly Doubt fled 
as the peculiar and unforgetable fragrance, all 
its own, swept away the years . . . "and I 
stood again where the Yellow Rose, all thorn- 
covered, lifted its sunny top above the picket 
fence, plucked its choicest blossom, put it al- 
most apologetically and ashamed into the but- 
tonhole of my jacket, stuffed my hands into my 
pockets and went whistling down the street, 
with the yellow rose-tint and the sunlight and 
the curls on my child head all shining in har- 
mony." 

So wonderfully does Chance, or Destiny, 
time its work! 



As strangely as the old bell returned to me 

178 



THE YELLOW ROSE 

— as sweetly as my first flower-love came back 
and filled the office with its sunshine that April 
morning — so Life itself was restored. In its 
new touch was Something that brought back 
the deep blue to the evening sky, that again 
exhaled the perfume from the spring-time 
violet-beds, that sounded once more the clarion 
lilt of the meadow-lark on his post, and awak- 
ened all the loved voices that had so thrilled 
me before the Night dropped down. 

And so, dear Unnamed Dream Child of 
mine, silent comrade of the unremembered 
Long Ago, the blessed Now and the Forever 
After, whose unknown hand found my Yellow 
Rose and laid it here to greet me, in deepest 
gratitude this book is dedicated. My gift is 
offered without apology — for whatever the 
craftsmanship, it carries to you the fragrance 
of the choicest flower in all the great Garden 
of Life. 



179 



HERE THE BOOK ENDS. 
THE STORY, PERCHANCE, 
GOES ON. NOT ALL THE 
THINGS YOU REMEMBER 
ARE HERE SET DOWN, 
FOR IF THEY WERE IT 
WOULD BE MY BOOK — 
AND IT WAS MEANT TO 
BE YOURS. IF THESE 
PAGES HAVE STIRRED 
DEAR MEMORIES SO THAT 
YOU MAY GO ON WITH 
THE STORY — YOUR STORY 
IT IS ENOUGH. . . . 




'm4 >i'; 






'Wiv. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



018 484 038 



